


Nothing Stays Buried

by thepointoftheneedle



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Brief Violence, Don’t make assumptions about other people’s sexuality, F/M, Fake Marriage, Friends to Lovers, Investigative Duo, Journalist and author Jughead, Murder, Mutual Pining, New Orleans, Only One Bed, PI Betty, Trafficking mentioned, drug trade mentioned, mention of slavery- historic, organised crime, past Toni and Jughead friends with benefits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-13 03:55:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 32,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28771947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepointoftheneedle/pseuds/thepointoftheneedle
Summary: Betty declared herself to her friend and he turned her down. Now she needs his help to investigate a murder in New Orleans.  Can they solve the case, save the girl and finally be honest with each other?  (Yes, unsurprisingly, yes they can.)
Relationships: Betty Cooper/Jughead Jones
Comments: 170
Kudos: 117





	1. Prologue

New Orleans Louisiana  
14 January 8.11p.m.

When the sickening gush had become a reluctant ooze she walked over to where the knife lay on the parquet floor. She wiped the handle carefully on her sweatshirt before dropping it onto the couch, the blade still dripping gelatinous ruby drops. She felt sticky and gross and when she looked around the oh so tasteful room, she could see a girl shaped void in the blood spray over the drapes. It was, despite everything, sort of comical and she huffed softly. 

Then she called 911 and told the operator that she had murdered her father.

___________

New York, New York  
14 January 8.11p.m.

Archie, his voice soft and low, continued the song as he backed gingerly out of the nursery. He carefully pulled the door until it was almost closed but still allowed a slither of light from the hallway to reach the corner where the monster was inclined to hide. He padded along the hallway with a sense of accomplishment, nursing a spark of hope that his daddy diligence would be rewarded by Veronica who he had heard coming up the stairs as he had finished up a giggly and sudsy bath-time. She was sitting on their bed, glasses perched on the end of her nose, laptop open. He closed the bedroom door tight and looked at his wife with unambiguous desire. He liked the eyeglasses, they gave her a kind of sexy boss look. She glanced up at him and caught his expression. “Is he down?”

“Fast asleep, clutching his blankie. We had Very Hungry Caterpillar three times. I don’t need to look at the pages anymore.”

“The denouement gets tedious after the first time doesn’t it? Well done. You get that done with so much less drama than me. Now if that look means you are expecting a lil’ somethin' somethin’ for your efforts, you have to wait until I’ve sent out Freddie’s Christmas thank you letters.”

He threw himself on the bed next to her and rested his chin on her lap next to the screen. “Doesn’t that involve crayons and stamps and…Freddie?”

“No. This is the digital age. He drew a cute picture on the iPad and signed his name. Here it is.” Archie looked at the screen and smiled when he saw his son had mirrored the R in his name just as he used to himself. “I’m going to email it with this photo of the artist.”

Family Christmases were rare for the Lodge-Andrewses these days and this year had been no exception. Hiram had been with his "other" family in Miami, Hermione was wintering in Europe as usual, it had been Mary and her wife’s turn to spend holidays with Brooke’s family in Florida. Veronica had embraced the opportunity to fill the house with Freddie’s honorary aunts and uncles, or as many of them as they could gather in New York. Sixteen of them sat down for the festive feast after a riotous game of tag football on the lawn and all of them had brought the toddler extravagant gifts.

“Should I just send the artwork to Betty? I can’t find a picture of Freddie from Christmas where he isn’t clambering all over Jughead.” Aunt Betty had been absent from the celebration but the xylophone she had sent was very much still a part of their lives.

Archie looked bereft, remembering how close the three of them had been as kids. It was years since the three musketeers had even been in the same room. “I just don’t get what the problem is. Does she ever mention him?” he asked.

Veronica could see that he was blue about it. Her heart went out to him. So much of his childhood had been wrenched from him. She knew his dad’s old number was still in his phone, saw him scroll to it sometimes before stuffing the phone back into his pocket. The house on Elm Street was another family's home now, he could never go back. The easy friendship with Jughead and Betty that they had imagined would last forever had splintered. She wanted to help him understand that loss even if the rest of it made no sense. “Look, I shouldn’t say anything really. You have to promise that you won’t mention it. To either of them. Promise?” He nodded, looking up at her.

She took a deep breath. “Betty developed sort of a crush on him.”

“When? Why didn’t I know that?”

“Well she told me in senior year of high school when she broke up with Trev but I think maybe it had been going on for quite a while by then. Anyway it was pretty clear to everyone that Jug wasn’t interested in girls but she couldn’t get over it. It went on all through college. Those dates I got her to go on never went anywhere because none of the guys were him. She was so miserable at our engagement party that I said she’d just have to get it out in the open and let the cards fall as they may. All the pining was stopping her from moving on. So she made her pitch and he rejected her pretty hard so now she avoids him because she feels so awkward. She totally blames herself, says that it was completely disrespectful of her to push it when she knew he was ace.”

Archie looked bewildered. “Ace?”

“Asexual. Not interested in girls…or boys. Not in that way at least.”

“Jughead? We’re talking about Jug right now?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Jughead isn’t asexual. He’s kind of anti-social and stuff but he isn’t asexual.”

Now it was Veronica’s turn to look confused. “What are you talking about? He’s never been with anyone since I met him. That’s ten years.”

“He and Toni have an arrangement. Kind of a friends with benefits thing. Not all the time but on and off since freshman year of college, before maybe. Whenever she and Cheryl have been on a break and Cheryl’s been off dealing with her shit. I mean he doesn’t tell me much about it but it’s a thing. Definitely.”

The Andrews- Lodges stared at each other, both trying to process an avalanche of new information and falling to find any kind of secure footing in it.


	2. Southwood Plantation Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Betty asks for help.

Betty was ready to drop from exhaustion. She had been on a stakeout since ten the night before. She needed a shower, clean pyjamas and a nurturing boyfriend to make her a grilled cheese and rub her feet. Two out of three would have to do.

New Orleans in January was as temperate as a warm spring day back home and three times as humid. She felt grimed with sweat and the seediness of the assignment that she had completed. She had photographs of him putting his hand on the cocktail waitress in the bar, of him grabbing at her ass as they walked up the steps to her home, of their silhouettes embracing in the unshaded window and of him creeping away to his car in the shrimp coloured dawn. Maybe they'd been playing a serious game of Monopoly all night, but it would still be enough to invalidate his carefully drafted prenup. She disliked these marital jobs but, in the absence of other work, it paid the bills. She would suck it up. Maybe once upon a time she had dreamed of righting wrongs and protecting the innocent but the real world was rarely in need of a flaming sword of justice and it was more likely to set her to sordid peeping and eavesdropping. Being on the side of righteousness seemed less a matter of coordinates and more about the company one kept, and even then it was open to debate. Still, she absolutely could not fail at this job. As if the Orwellian two minutes of hate that was her weekly phone conversation with her mother didn’t shrivel her self esteem enough, the oh so caring remarks about her barren spinsterhood were still ringing in her ears from Christmas. She remembered the holidays with a shudder, she’d been torturing herself by looking at Veronica’s Insta posts and video clips over that long, bleak festive week in Riverdale. A tall, slim, dark haired man swinging his godson around in a huge arc like he was the kid's own personal fairground ride, a shot of him, cheeks puffed out with turkey and candied yam, another of him flinching from a tossed football like he was genuinely scared of it. Even her mother's carping had been preferable to being near him with their friendship irrevocably lost to her. That really would have been unendurable.

Her phone rang while she was in the shower, asleep on her feet, her shoulders resting against the tile as the water cascaded over her. She reached out for it with a wet hand and saw it was the business number. She turned off the faucet and stood in the bathroom, naked and chilled, to answer. "Good morning, Cooper Investigation Agency, How may I help you today?"

"Betty? It's Léonie Parmentel. I'm a defence attorney. We met at the Broussard trial last month. I may have a job for you if you're interested."

Betty was interested in keeping her office and paying her rent, so colour her interested enough.

Two hours later, showered but unrested she stood stiffly in a room that smelled like an abattoir. The furniture was expensive, cream except where it was drenched in gouts of blood. She could clearly see where the assailant had stood. Their figure was outlined in crimson on the expensive brocade drapes, a gory antumbra. She was with Léonie who, despite her years on the job, looked a little nauseous in this chamber of horrors. "She doesn't deny it at all. She says she took the kitchen knife, waited until he pulled her in to give her a birthday hug and then cut his throat. She kicked her heels while he bled out and then called 911, as cool as a cucumber. She just turned seventeen yesterday.”

“Young girls don’t generally kill their daddies without good reason. Believe me. I should know. It’s most likely a sex abuse case right? That’ll play with a jury.”

“That’s what I thought until I talked to her. She denies it out of hand. She’s a tough cookie. She insists that she wanted him dead so she killed him. And that’s all she’ll say.”

“Can I talk to her?”

“If you agree to take the case, cher. I have to register you as my agent so you share my attorney client privilege. Then you can talk to her, but I doubt you’ll get much from her. She’s a very… self contained young woman.”

You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Betty remembered being called the same thing herself as a teen.

“It is a bad thing if she comes across as so mature that the DA tries to prosecute her as an adult. She’s not helping me make any kind of defence. She’ll be in jail until she’s having hot flushes and tweezing her chin. Let’s hope no-one decides to restart executions in Louisiana or she’ll be up against the death penalty.”

Betty agreed to take the case and later that day had the guard bring Manon StClair from her jail cell. As Léonie had predicted, she got nowhere. She’d played nice, taken candy and offered the pack to the kid who looked at her levelly and asked if she had a cigarette instead. She was pale and washed out, either naturally or as a consequence of imprisonment, harsh lighting and the difficulty of working the orange jumpsuit look. Betty had tried to make a friend of the kid, tried to sympathise, told her something about her own father but Manon fixed her with her grey appraising eyes and muttered “Cool story bro,” before staring back at the tile floor. 

Eventually Betty began to lose patience. “You want to waste your life in jail do you? Rot in here and miss your chance to have a career or get married and have a family. Because that’s what you seem to be choosing. Is it some kind of emo slow suicide thing?”

“Are you married?” the kid asked. 

“We aren’t talking about me,” she snapped.

“Oh, maybe we ought to be. That wasted life you were warning me about, is that projection? Unmarried, childless, this,” she made an all encompassing gesture with her wrist, “instead of a career. Some kind of shit show dysfunctional family and nothing to show for the… what, thirty five years you’ve been alive. You go girl, laissez les bons temps rouler.”

Betty’s hand twitched with the desire to slap this child across the face but she resisted. She even managed not to rise to the jab about her age by telling this child that she was only twenty-seven. “Enjoy your evening Manon,” she said and buzzed the corrections officer to escort her back to her cell. She was certainly an interesting girl.

The terrible truth was that Manon hadn’t been so wrong. Betty had made a dramatic relocation because everything she had known before made her miss him. Losing a friend seemed so much more wrenching than losing a lover. Lovers came and went, like seasons. He had been her constant, like time itself. Her sense of who she was had been defined in relation to him. He was a little gloomy so she was the sunny one, coaxing him from his moodiness. She was inclined to anxiety so he was sanguine, talking her down from the ledge. He was art and she was science. He was an introvert so she had managed their social calendar, persuading him to the important events and refusing others with a shrug and a “You know how Jughead is. We’re just going to hang out at his place.” When they were no longer friends she had to learn, gradually and painfully, how to calm herself when she thought she might just begin to scream and never be able to stop. She had eventually grasped that she could just refuse an invitation on her own behalf, that she was allowed to feel less than chirpy, that she didn’t always have to understand why she felt as she did or be able to fix it. It had taken a long time but now she was a single complete person, not a truncated remainder of Betts-and-Jug. It was fun to sit alone and watch a second line parade pass beneath her balcony, not needing company to enjoy the music. She just couldn’t imagine running downstairs to join in. 

Betty had a very different and much more congenial meeting the following afternoon with Léonie in the coffee shop at the Roosevelt Hotel. She wore a slightly uncomfortable shift dress and heels, dressing as the successful business-woman she wanted to be not as the down at heel gumshoe that she was. She had been doing some digging and what she discovered about Manon’s late father was concerning to stay the least. 

“My contacts tell me he was a wise guy,” she told the attorney, looking at Léonie scrutinisingly. Her new client was a member of a legal dynasty in the Big Easy, she had to have known that the victim was a mobster. All that pale silk had been paid for with blood so perhaps it was only fitting that it ended up covered in it. “Well connected. Lots of fingers in lots of pies, in the Sweeney Todd sense. I don’t like Manon’s chances of living to see her release date if she’s convicted. Word is that Manon’s big brother, will take over. I guess it’s worked out okay for him that his li’l sis is a psychopath, which is what he’s putting out apparently. The whole thing has a weird Greek tragedy kind of vibe.”

Léonie had the good grace to look embarrassed. “I’m sorry about that cher. I thought you’d run a mile if I mentioned the mob angle. Many did.”

“I’m not them,” Betty said bringing her most badass tone into play, “but counsellor, if I wrap this up I’m expecting a little loyalty from you and your colleagues. You’ll put some work my way on the regular, make me top of the list of investigators to call, spread the word, right?” 

Léonie nodded. “I may have underestimated you Betty. I called guys who think they’re tough who wouldn’t get involved but you just pile right on in. I won’t forget if you help get this cleared up.”

“Okay, tell me what you know about the brother. Based on the cui bono principle he seems to have the most to gain.”

“The word is that he’s a moderniser. Still ruthless but the big pay offs are in cyber crime these days, not so much old time gangster action. He’s been his pop’s lieutenant for a couple of years but he always kept out of the dirty work. Maybe he’s squeamish or he’s simply too smart to dirty his hands with violence.” 

Betty frowned until she heard her mother’s voice in her head warning her about an incipient wrinkle between her eyes. She didn’t have a sense of how the family functioned, what the dynamic was like. The finicky brother and the sister up to her armpits in blood, the old world gangster and his white collar heir. She needed to get a closer look. “I feel like I need to get in there, undercover. It’s got something to do with the family, at least in the organised crime sense of the word.” 

Leonie nodded, she’d clearly been expecting that. “If you need an in with the wise guys I have a cousin that may be able to help. I’ll give him a call. How’s your math?”

Léonie’s cousin, it emerged, was an accountant. He seemed to skirt the very edges of legal business practice but with a whole family of lawyers to litigate him out of trouble he had remained on the right side of the law. Just. He had been acting for the StClair family for the last several years and now, with a will to navigate and a new man at the helm there were lots of numbers to crunch. Léonie said she would merely have to mention the possibility of calling her friend in the IRS to persuade him that he needed to take on a new staffer fresh in from the Big Apple to help with his growing workload, no questions asked. Leonie put a hand on Betty’s and met her eye seriously, “But Betty, this is dangerous stuff. If you slip up or your cover gets blown you’ll need some muscle. I’m owed a couple favours downtown. I’ll call up the station and have them assign you an officer to help.”

Betty was incredulous. “Leonie you know what the NOPD is like. It leaks like a rotten pirogue. I’ll be blown in five seconds flat. How am I going to disguise some beat cop? That’s insane. I work alone.”

“Hey cher, no back-up, no deal. I’d never forgive myself. Isn’t there a boyfriend you can bring in? Safer to be attached anyway, these guys can be hard of hearing when a lady says no.”

“Fine, okay. I’ll bring someone in. It’s all adding to your account though. And I’m going to need an address too, if they follow me home the plate on my door will give me away.”

Leonie smiled, “I believe I can help you there, cher,” and Betty made to set off to her little condo in the Garden District to pack her bags and build a legend for her and her backup. As she opened her car door Leonie called after her, “You need to hire someone you can trust. These folks can be persuasive if someone’s loyalty can be bought. Just a suggestion, cher.”

As Betty drove home she pretended to consider options for a partner in the case. There was, as she well knew before she even began, only one name that would make the cut. On the pro side of the mental chart was the fact that they knew each other inside out and back to front. There would be no difficulty in pretending to be an old married couple since their friends had been teasing them with that epithet since they were high school juniors. She knew how he took his coffee (dark and bitter like his sense of humour), his favourite book (The Big Sleep), even which side of the bed he preferred (left, they’d shared often back in the day, her lying awake, longing for his arm to creep over to encircle her. It never had.) And he would be an asset to the investigation. A journalist at the New York Times for the past three years, he had the investigative chops to really help her. Finally he would be able to hold his own if things cut up rough. He was bookish and gentle but when called on he could give a blow as well as take one. He was not squeamish. She’d read his piece about child soldiers in Sudan, he’d been able to face danger without losing any of the compassion that she had always loved. She’d been terrified for him alone in a lawless warzone. On the cons, he couldn’t bear to be in the same room as her. And it was completely her fault. She couldn’t let herself recall the night of Archie and Veronica’s engagement party towards the end of her senior year in college when she had blown up their friendship and been almost crushed by the falling debris. 

Instead she thought about back when they’d been a team. There had been a summer when they were twelve and Archie had gone to spend six weeks with his mom in Chicago. They had spent everyday together, running around town with Hotdog playing detectives, following a suspicious stranger who turned out to be Ethel’s cousin visiting from Seaside. One August morning she had confided in him that her sister Polly was acting strangely, locking herself in her room and yelling if anyone knocked to ask if she wanted juice or a fresh baked cookie. Betty had been almost sure she wasn’t alone in there. Jug said that he’d mount a stakeout, his blue eyes sparkling with excitement behind the hank of dark hair that always needed to be cut and never was until she had started to do it for him much later. He said that he and Hot Dog would watch from Archie’s tree house and see what was going on. He’d report back in the morning. She’d asked how he would explain where he was to his dad and he’d laughed in a new hard way that she didn’t like and said his dad wouldn’t know anything about it and could care less. 

She’d thought about him all night, close by like that, and it had made her feel something unsettling. She didn’t know if she wanted to weep or laugh as she left her drapes open a sliver when she changed for bed. She’d never done that when Archie might look out. The next day Jughead’s eyes were wide, the circles under them darker than usual, as he told her that her sister had entertained a gentleman caller until just after one a.m. Betty was shocked but, she realised, not very surprised. “Was it Jason?” she whispered, even though they were quite alone out by the swimming hole. He nodded. “She’s fifteen Juggie. I guess she knows what she’s doing. They were probably just talking.”

He shook his head, confusion clouding his features. “He climbed out of her window and down the tree. She leaned out to kiss him goodbye. Her shirt was unbuttoned,” he muttered, cheeks flaming. 

Betty didn’t know whether outrage or admiration was the appropriate response. “It’s her business. I’d expect her to keep quiet if I had a boyfriend,” she said decisively. He’d gulped and looked at his feet where they dangled in the water. 

“You wouldn’t do that though. You wouldn’t let him come into your room at night like that,” he’d said softly.

“Depends who he was Juggie,” she replied, with what she had intended to be a meaningful look. He shook himself violently and shoved her into the water with a crazed laugh, running away as fast as he could as she scrambled out to chase after him, saturated and yelling. That must have been when he was realising that he didn’t like girls in the way that Jason liked Polly. It must have been even more confusing for him than her new feelings were for her. And she’d never helped him. Some friend she’d been.

In any case, there was no way he’d get involved in this. She knew that perfectly well as she picked up her phone to call him.

_____________________________________________________________

He’d been away from the office for just over a month and his natural nocturnal biorhythms were reasserting themselves. He’d been writing until just after 3a.m. and then, too wired to sleep, he played video games against opponents who he suspected should have been in bed hours before if they were to be fit for school in the morning. It was pathetic that a grown ass man should be getting his butt kicked by thirteen year old kids in a virtual arena that he suspected he should have retired from years before. In other circumstances he might have texted Toni with their habitual code, “Hey, you still up?” but that wasn’t an option. Cheryl was newly returned from a three month retreat in Switzerland where she claimed the doctors had “fixed” her. Her issues didn’t seem like the kind of thing that could be addressed with 90 days of raclette and skiing but he kept quiet when Toni told him she was going to give it “one last try.” He knew it would never be the last try. They were each other’s best thing. The Blossom family legacy was toxic and dangerous and batshit crazy but she and Toni had something that made Cheryl keep trying to get better, to be better, to make Toni as happy as she deserved to be. Maybe this time it would stick.

He missed the sex but he was happy for Toni. She was his pal, his confidante. It didn’t occur to him that he could seek comfort in someone else’s bed. He needed a connection, trust, friendship at least, to enjoy sex. Toni said he was the most monogamous guy she’d ever met. It was just unfortunate that the woman that he wanted to live out that monogamy with had probably barely given him a thought in years. He avoided her, which was cowardly of him. That was certainly what Toni thought. She always said he should go to her, make some tragic lovelorn declaration and see what happened but he couldn’t do that. She’d never seen him that way. Last time they’d been together she’d been so oblivious of his feeling that she’d almost ruined their best friends’ engagement party but it was nothing new — it had always been that way. 

He could point to a specific moment when he had understood that she wasn’t meant for him. It was the night before high school freshman year. He’d been dreaming of her for months. He had this stupid fantasy that once they were in high school she would magically be his girl but he had no idea how to make that happen. Then Archie threw a back to school party which, since he was living at the Andrews’ place at the time, he was obliged to attend. Somehow he’d been sitting in exactly the wrong place when she had spun the bottle. The noise from the hyenas in the circle had been deafening as she looked up at him, pale and trembling. There had been an explosion of joy in his chest and then Reggie had been yelling, “Get some Jones, might be your only chance, like, ever unless you kidnap girls and keep them in your basement. Oh no, trailers don't have basements do they?” They all knew that he was not entitled to look at her, let alone touch her. If she, brave and resolute as she was, had gone through with it, she’d suffer in the hallways and the lunchroom, the girl who kissed the weirdo. He saved her, standing and stalking away, looking back over his shoulder to declaim “Your bizarre mating rituals are of no interest to me,” and heading out to the garage to sulk with Vegas until everyone had left. 

The next day in homeroom she had sat with Veronica avoiding his eye. He’d thought she might at least thank him. At lunch she hadn’t offered him a sandwich as had been their custom all through junior high and he had moped on his own in the library for a week until she tracked him down with a turkey on wholewheat and dragged him back into her circle. They never spoke of it, just resumed a friendship that had meant more to him than he could say, until the engagement party.

Now, after years of avoiding each other, out of the blue, she called him.

It was nine in the morning and he was buried under the bedsheets when the buzzing from his nightstand dragged him by the hair into the brutal consciousness of the revenant. He blinked at the screen until the letters resolved into “Betty” and he blenched and dropped the device under the bed. He jumped out of his pit and scrabbled on the floor to goggle at the phone some more. It still said “Betty.” He considered letting it go to voicemail but if she didn’t leave a message he’d never know what she had wanted. That would be unendurable. He accepted the call with as cheery a “Morning Betts,” as he could summon.

“Oh God Jug, did I wake you? I’m so sorry. I assumed you’d be at work by now.”

“Nope, not at work,” he replied cryptically, so she ploughed on.

“Listen I’m calling to ask a favour but if you aren’t interested I completely get it. I know you’ve been avoiding me and I understand. I know I freaked you out and it was unforgivable and I’m so sorry. I knew it was wrong and hopeless when I did it but I just went ahead. I’m so sorry… Jug, are you still there?”

“Yes, are you going to ask the favour?” He didn’t trust himself to talk about that night.

“Shit, yes, sorry. Okay so I have a case and I need a husband. No, sorry, that sounds all wrong. I’m investigating a murder and I’m going to be going undercover and I could really use a partner as backup, being my husband. And I thought of you. But just say no and that’s completely fine.”

“Okay,” he said, surprised to hear himself say the word.

“Okay, say no and forget it or okay to being my husband? No, not being, pretending to be. I’m sorry.”

“Okay, I can pretend that.” He tried not to look too closely at his motivation but it was pretty transparent. This would be the only chance he would ever have to live the life that he had dreamed of. It wasn’t real but he would be manifesting that alternate universe where he was Betty Cooper’s husband, where she had chosen him over all the other men in the world, where she loved him like he loved her. He simply lacked the moral courage to turn that down.

“But you don’t know what I’m asking. You’d need to come down to Louisiana. I live in New Orleans now. And it might be dangerous. And what about your job? You can’t just say okay like it’s nothing.”

“I know that you live in New Orleans. I sent you a birthday card, remember. Five months ago. It had a cat on it that looked like Caramel.” 

As he spoke he looked at his dresser where her reciprocal birthday card still stood more than three months after he’d received it. It had a photograph of a motorcycle and looked like it had been sent by a maiden aunt. Inside she had written “To Jughead, with my best wishes, Betty (Cooper).” Like he needed her last name. Like he ever would. 

“Dangerous is okay,” he continued. “I could use the excitement and I’m on sabbatical from work for a year trying to finish the novel. I can do that in New Orleans as well as here. You wouldn’t have asked me if you didn’t need me to say yes. So yes Betty, I’ll help.”

“Oh my God, thanks so much Jug. Wow you’re such a pal. It’ll be fun to see you. I’ve missed you. We can be friends again can’t we? All that stuff is just water under the bridge right? I’m so sorry for laying all that on you. It was unforgivable.”

“Are you…over that now? You’ve moved on?”

“Yes, oh of course. Absolutely. You don’t need to worry about that at all. I don’t know what I was thinking. It was crazy. I’m totally over it. Promise.”

So it was agreed. He would get a flight to NOLA at the end of the week and they would pretend to be married. He knew it was reckless and foolish, that he was presenting his tender heart as a sacrificial offering even though she didn’t understand what it would cost him, would be unable to give him anything in return, but that’s what love meant he guessed. Giving only when you expected a reward wasn’t love, it was business. He would go to New Orleans and let her use him. He’d pretend they were married and maybe some day when he was wrinkled and bewildered in an old folks’ home he’d think it had been true, that she had loved him once. The chance to give her his love, even unrequited and hopeless, was worth the pain.

So then he had to get ready. He emailed his publisher with his completed chapters and warned them that he was going off grid for a few weeks to get some head space. He’d been putting off the laundry since he had stopped going into the office so now he had to address the heap of flannel and denim in the hamper. As he picked through his clothes he had the idea that maybe he should go and shop for a new wardrobe, make a good impression as Veronica would have said. He snorted in derision at the idea. If she were shallow enough for the packaging to matter he would never have wanted her so badly.

He was dozing in the laundry room, soothed by the rattle of the drier and the warm humidity, when a memory drifted through his mind. It was back in high school. He’d just run the gauntlet, his cheekbone throbbing, a cut under his eye swollen so badly it was making it hard for him to see properly. She had stroked a soothing finger across his cheek, worry in her eyes, a sad smile on her lips. He’d been hiding out in the Blue and Gold office, avoiding the stares and the judgement of his peers but she’d found him. She didn’t understand his life back then but it didn’t matter. She’d trusted that he was doing what he needed to in order to survive and she had sat with him in silence, letting her acceptance of who he was soak into him like warm sunlight. She took his hand, noting the ouroboros ring that had joined his collection, a gift from Toni after he’d completed his initiation. It would only fit on his pinkie finger. She twisted it around and around until it slid over his knuckle, turning it thoughtfully. She tried it on, as if she had been contemplating a life as a serpent herself, an idea which was so absurd it made him snort. It fitted perfectly on her ring finger and she held it up for him to admire. “What do you think Juggie? Could I pull off the Serpent aesthetic?” she’d joked.

“No Betts, that finger is just waiting for Trev’s diamond dazzler. No room for snakes there,” he smiled. She took the ring off and handed it back, dropping a soft kiss on his head before drifting off to class. He realised why his subconscious was flipping that memory to the front of his mind. He was going to buy her a wedding ring. It was pathetic but he would never have the chance again. Even the thought of slipping a gold band onto her finger made his heart so full and tender that he had to brush the back of his hand across his face. He’d tell her he’d borrowed it from a divorced friend or something, she didn’t need to know that it would be a totem object to him for the rest of his life once she took it off and handed it back at the end of the charade. 

He flew into Louis Armstrong on Saturday afternoon with a white gold band on his finger and another in the pocket of his jeans. In the jewellery store he’d chosen a matching set, not expensive but they wouldn’t turn their fingers green either. All through the flight he’d been imagining a world where it would signify, where that circle of gold would have the magic power of representing, not be merely an object but a symbol. She was waiting. He’d been prepared for their meeting to be tense and awkward. They had parted on bad terms and hadn’t met again for more than four years. That kind of breach couldn’t just heal, he’d supposed. But then he saw her and she smiled and he was as lost as he had ever been. He jogged through the gate and took her in his arms and she nuzzled against his chest. When he held her back to look at her, her eyes were wet with tears.

“Where yat Cooper?” he smiled.

“Oh God, Jug, tell me you haven’t been watching The Big Easy.”

“On a loop cher. You can call me Remy if you like.”

“Well no one talks like that so you’d better dial it way the hell back. Come on husband, let me take you to our happy home with a white picket fence,” and just like that it was easy between them. The old familiarity just seemed to slide into place. “I guess you need a cigarette after your flight, you must be starting to panic,” she teased.

He could have used a smoke but he was trying, yet again, to quit so he shook his head, “No, I’m a non smoker these days.”

“Yeah right, and a vegan too no doubt,” she sniggered and bipped the lock on the car. “Nothing changes that much Juggie.” He smiled bitterly, knowing she was right.

As she drove to their suburban dream home he took the opportunity to look at her. She had changed but only in ways that seemed to make her more truly herself. The tight ponytail was gone. The pastel sweaters had always been an expression of Alice Cooper’s aspirations rather than Betty’s taste and now they had been jettisoned in favour of faded jeans and a Saints sweatshirt. He thought she might be wearing some make up, perhaps something on her lashes, a swipe of gloss on her lips but she was, above all, herself. He couldn’t have wanted her more. She must have felt his attention on her because she turned to him with a grin. “It’s so good to have you here Jug. I wish I’d reached out before, asked you to come for a visit. I missed you.”

“I missed you too Betts.” As he said it he felt tears begin to prickle behind his eyes. It really was imperative that he steer clear of the swamp of his emotional life. He changed tack. “What’s the situation with the case? When are we starting?”

“Oh right, yes. So you read the papers I emailed right?” He nodded. He’d liked the sound of the kid. “So Léonie, the attorney, has arranged a house for us out in Destrehan. It’s a suburb, just the place for an up and coming accountant and her new husband. We’ll stick to the truth and say you’re taking a sabbatical from work to write a book. Better not say you’re a reporter though. Some boring job that no-one will want to know more about.”

“Just say I’m a copy editor. Close enough to be believable and I can talk about dangling modifiers and amphibology til their ears bleed and they leave me alone,” he grinned.

“Good. We’ll use your name, it’s common enough to be a good disguise as long as you don’t start going by Forsythe.”

“Like I ever would. Except for in my byline. Even then I just use F.”

“I know. I have an alert set. That Sudan piece was really wonderful.” He looked away so she couldn’t see how it affected him that she had read what he wrote. He knew she was just being kind, polite really. If a writer comes to stay you mention something they wrote. But she’d chosen the piece he was most proud of. She was continuing. “The place is bland but pretty comfortable. There’s a yard and a study so you can work. Really you shouldn’t have to do anything but write your novel. Leonie had this crazy idea that they might try to off me in the night so let’s hope she’s being paranoid. Anyway I’ve bought a ton of groceries on expenses and we can kick back and watch old movies til I start work Monday morning.”

“Ok, how long have we been married? How did I propose? When did we start dating? When did we move down here?” 

Betty looked slightly flummoxed by the questions. “Why would they ask any of that? I’m an accountant.”

“People like stories. Believe me. And, if you can give them one they like, it’ll distract them from asking you questions about IRS regulations and tax codes. We need to build a narrative.”

“Okay. Newlyweds. A Christmas wedding. Think up a meet cute for us, I spilled your coffee at Starbucks or there was a blizzard and a guesthouse with only one bed left or something.”

“Too Hallmark Betts. Just say we met in high school, a friends to lovers, slow burn kind of thing.” He couldn’t keep the bitterness from his voice when he said it. It still hurt that it hadn’t happened like that.

She didn’t reply and he realised they had pulled up outside a single story suburban home. The lawn was neat, the sidings freshly painted. It looked like any anonymous American home. Jug was a little disappointed. “I was hoping for alleyways and balconies and trees dripping with Spanish moss Betts. Maybe a gator or two. This is a bit Norman Rockwell isn’t it?”

“More David Lynch since we’re investigating a bloody homicide. Actually you’ll have to see my place before you leave. It might suit your Southern gothic aesthetic better. Come on, let’s get you settled in.” As they walked up the drive a neighbour appeared on his lawn, waving enthusiastically.

“Ugh, suburbia,” groaned Jughead as if in physical pain as he waved back and plastered a grin onto his face.


	3. This House Like a Louisiana Graveyard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A steak dinner, wedding rings and a motorcycle.

The Jughead that flew down to help her was not exactly the same person she’d last seen four years before. Her Jughead had run away in terror once rather than kiss her at a high school party. Now, with her key still in the lock, he was scooping her up in a bridal lift. Instinctively she threw her arms around his neck and shrieked in surprise, both that he could lift her and that he would. He shoved the unlocked door with his shoulder and carried her indoors, his bags in a heap on the doorstep. “What the hell Jug?” she laughed breathlessly as he set her on her feet. His wiry frame belied his strength.

“Geoff or Greg or Gary or whatever he’s called is watching. If we’re supposed to be newlyweds we need to give him some romance.” He seemed flushed, she supposed she was heavier than he had thought. She swiped at his shoulder playfully to disguise how excited the contact had made her. 

“Well I just hope you haven’t put your back out hefting me about,” she laughed.

“You were light as thistledown, my bride,” he replied and stepped back out to pick up the bags. She tried to stifle her heteronormative and frankly selfish regret at his sexuality, asexuality she should say.

Once he had unpacked in the guest room, he came slouching through with his hands in his pockets to find her in the kitchen. In a concession to the unseasonal warmth of the January day, he’d lost the flannel. His jeans were worn and hung low on his hips. The suspenders he’d affected back then had been replaced by a belt and she wondered when that had happened. He wore a white tank that let her see the defined muscle in his arms that she’d felt earlier. “Been working out Jones? What‘cha benching?” she teased, aware that her gaze might have created a tension between them.

“I can’t just eat and never exercise like I used to Coop. We aren’t all gifted with having maintained our girlish figures like you.” She blushed. From any other guy that would have been flirtatious. She knew that Jughead didn’t see people as sexual creatures but sometimes he said or did things that made her doubt herself. She could almost convince herself that his glances weren’t just friendly, that her saw her as a woman as well as his old pal Coop and once upon a time she’d allowed herself to dream. But she’d been down that road and it led to a depressing dead end, far away from the easy friendship that she wanted to rediscover. 

“Speaking of eating, do you want to order in or shall I cook something?” she asked.

“Step aside wife. Allow me space to create. French I think, given the setting.” 

She gaped at him. “You’re going to cook? You cook now?”

“I am, if you don’t mind of course.” She shook her head emphatically and he explained. “I like to eat but my tastes are a little more sophisticated these days. Toni and I took a class a couple of years ago. She dropped out after two weeks but I got kind of obsessed, you know how I am. I’ll be chef and you can be my sous if you don’t mind me being temperamental and masterful.” She felt a blush appearing on her face because she very much didn’t mind him taking charge, dreamed about it in fact. He must have picked up on her confusion because his cheeks became a little pink too. She was going to struggle to get through this if she couldn’t stop putting a sexual spin on his innocent words. Her discomfort was relieved by a knock at the door. He stepped into the hallway, leaning back to mouth “Geoff,” back at her when he looked through the glass.

She heard an affable voice as he opened the door. “Hi neighbour. I saw you arrive a while ago. Was that a bridal lift? Congrats. I just thought I’d do the honours and welcome you to the neighbourhood. I’m Gary. Linda and I are at 537, us and the kidlets.” She heard the bonhomie in their neighbour’s voice with a sinking heart. Jughead wouldn’t be able to handle it and the misanthrope in the neighbourhood would instantly be the subject of gossip. Not ideal when one is undercover and seeking to slip under the radar.

“Well that’s mighty neighbourly of you Gary. I’m Jughead and my wife’s Lizzy. No kids yet but we've only been married since Christmas and we've been working on it…” She listened to the conversation, dumbfounded by Jughead’s easy charm. All that sexy, angsty energy seemed to be as easy for him to doff as the beanie these days. She hadn’t imagined she could find him more attractive. She’d been wrong.

She stepped into the hallway and he put his arm around her shoulder. “Lizzy, Gary’s here to welcome us to the street. Isn’t that wonderful?” She smiled and nodded, playing the shy bride, not even having to try too hard.

Gary held out a plastic container. Linda made you some of her famous molasses cookies. If you need anything just let me know. I’ve been running the mower over this grass out front, trying to keep up the neighbourhood but I’m guessing the back yard is a sight to see. If you need the mower until you get your own just let me know. Soon as the evenings warm up we’ll have a neighbourhood cookout so you can get to know everyone.” Jug was nodding and grinning in a terrifyingly close impersonation of her Dad before he went crazy.

“Sure thing buddy. Thanks so much and thanks to the little lady too,” he said, raising the Tupperware container in a suburban salute. “Once we get settled you’ll have to come by for a beer or three.” He gave a chuckle which was chilling. Eventually Gary sidled off back to his own place where they could see Linda waving from the front porch, wearing an apron like it was 1956. They managed to suppress their laughter until the door was firmly shut. Jughead took a bite out of a cookie, spat it out with a grimace and emptied the container into the trash. “Not good,” he muttered, returning to the kitchen to prepare their meal.

Later, making conversation as he sliced potatoes into paper thin, translucent slivers, he said, “So, a PI. What got you into that?”

She hesitated. She could give some trivial, plausible, half truth that would keep him at arm’s length and she thought he’d accept it but, she realised, she wanted him to know her life. She’d torn apart the fabric of their friendship but she wondered if being honest now might make it possible to mend the rip. It would hurt, the needle piercing again and again around the tear, searching for something sound to fix to, but it might be the only way to make their relationship serviceable again. It wouldn’t be the same, not beautiful and strong as it had been once, but it might provide her with some warmth against the aching cold of her loneliness.

“I flunked out of Quantico.” He looked up quickly in surprise. “Not bureau material,”she continued, continuing to meet his eye, delineating her flaws. “I’m impulsive, don’t deal well with authority, I’m insubordinate, oh and I’m not a team player.”

“Well, impulsive I guess. And you don’t suffer fools, so probably insubordinate to idiots. But you’re a great investigator. Didn’t that count for something? I’d be terrified if you were chasing me down. You never give up.” He was right about that she observed wryly. He had been terrified. “They made a mistake Betty. A huge mistake.” She realised that his reaction to her failure was what she had needed. Her friends had been on her side but they’d all said that she was a perfect fit for the FBI, that she wasn’t reckless or impetuous. Her mother, naturally, had said that she had never really expected her to make the grade, she was no Charles after all. Jughead was different. He saw and acknowledged who she was for good and ill and still valued her. He saw what was behind the mask she wore for everyone else and didn’t look away. She’d never been able to keep up appearances where he was concerned but there had never been any need. She hadn’t always appreciated how much she needed to be known. She should treasure that and never jeopardise it by being greedy for more than he could give. 

“Well I thought they were wrong at the time. Now I’m not sure. Anyway my instructor told me I was a natural investigator but not a good match for the bureau. I drifted around for a few months, did some bounty hunting, some insurance fraud investigation, not really settling to anything, but then he called me up, said he had a pal down here who was selling up his business, retiring. He’d thought of me, that it might suit a maverick. I had no plans, nothing to tie me down anywhere, so I met with Marty and decided I could make a go of it. I signed over all the money I inherited from Nana Blossom and moved to NOLA. My mom and Veronica and Polly and, well everyone really, kept saying I was crazy but I needed a change of scene. Running away from failure I guess, but this was the only thing that actually seemed possible at the time.”

He shook his head at that, the dark waves of his hair falling forward, making her breathless with the need to touch him. She breathed in deeply, wrenching her attention back to his words. “And is it what you hoped? Does it make you happy?” he asked. She regarded him for a long beat. He mustn't know that she wasn’t, that she still dreamed of him almost every night, that watching him cook this meal was flambéing the fantasies that substituted for her love life. She had brought him here with promises that she was over him. She had to dissemble.

“A little lonely I guess. Everyone has family here except me. People from the Crescent City stay in the Crescent City so I’m the odd one out, no one to take along to the cookouts when I get invited, no dance partner when folks ask me to Tipitina’s. But I like the work, mostly, and I don’t ever have to ask permission or apologise for doing things my way so I guess I’m happy. I like the city and the people. I set my own hours, I don’t have to tell anyone where I’ve been, I’m only accountable to my own conscience. You?”

He flushed pink and bent to put the casserole dish into the hot oven. When he stood he grinned and said, “Of course Coop, livin’ the dream.”

He prepared steak but steak like she had never eaten it before, nothing fancy, some oil and garlic and a hefty amount of skill. The potatoes had cooked in cream and herbs and he had apparently created a salad in ten seconds while she set the table. She had cleared her plate before remembering her mother’s insistence that she should leave something for Miss Manners. Too late. “That was a revelation Jug. You have a gift,” she told him.

He chuckled. “Well aren’t you a lucky girl to be married to me?”

She managed a smile even as he unwittingly twisted the knife in her gut.

They sat up late over the dirty dishes, finishing a bottle of wine, talking about his novel, her mother’s complicated love life, his father’s patchy sobriety. They talked about the city, why she felt at home so far from the pine forests and snow of their youth. “I like that folks say “Where y’at,“ instead of “Hi there,” she said, thoughtfully. Because they know exactly where they’re at, they’re home. New Orleans is in their blood, in their bones. It’s another way that Katrina was such a crime, so many folks displaced, not knowing where to go, if they were ever going to get back home, washed apart from their essence. But folks here, in this city, more than anywhere I’ve ever been, know exactly where they’re at. Take Léonie, you could put her down, blindfolded, anywhere in the city and she’d know where she was, by the ground under her shoes, the smells, the voices.’ She smiled, “and someone would be saying ‘What the hell you doing Léonie Parmentel?’ And I’ve never had that… and I don’t think you have either Jug. Our homes were …”

He smiled and continued her train of thought, “Terrible. No-one to watch out for us except each other. We’d get through a crisis and another was right along behind it. Getting punched over and over, nothing to do about it but crouch down and cover your head and pray it stops before you can’t ever get up again.”

She chuckled, recognition not mirth expressed with a shake of her head. “So people like us — we have to find home whatever way we can, maybe in our work, or in our lovers, in our friends, in our vices. We better choose carefully. If we lose that thing or that person, we might be lost for a long time. And that’s why I was so restless. It was because I was never home, and I could never find a way to make a new one. I was in exile. Having the business helps a little.”

He smiled a little sadly. “I get it Betts. My dad calls it doing a geographic. It’s an AA thing. When you up sticks and move somewhere else, change what’s outside because you can’t fill a space inside, a need you can’t meet for yourself. In a way it was what I’ve been doing with this sabbatical. I kid myself that if I write the book, if I'm the author at last, then everything will be fixed. But it won’t be. I’ll still be me. I can't leave me behind, no matter how much I might want to.”

It hurt her to know that he felt it too, the dislocation that was always with her, the sense of amputation that never resolved itself. The difficulty was that he had always been her home but she could never be his. She was always in exile from him, from the sound of his surprised laughter when she made a joke, from the scouring attention of his eyes when she was lying to herself, from the way a glancing touch made her heart race. But she must never say any of that. She knew it would destroy the easy friendship that they had managed to recover if she took his hand where it lay on the table between them and looked into his eyes and said, as she longed to, said, “It’s you Jug. You’re my home. You always were,” so she bit down on her lip until she could taste the coppery tang of her blood.

Finally, just as she began to gather up the plates, he pulled something from his pocket and slid it across the table. When she saw the ring her heart lurched even though she knew, _she knew_ , that it was just a scrap of metal with no significance outside itself. There was no bezel to turn to make him see her as she saw him. She tried to fix her face into an impassive expression but the tears threatened to flow despite her best efforts. He was shocked by the response, scrambling to comfort her, “Hey, what’s this about? I’m sorry Betts. I didn’t mean to upset you. Christ what an idiot. Look I’ll just get rid of it, of course you don’t want to wear it.” 

“No, it’s fine. I’m being stupid. The wine…” She snatched it away from him as he reached for it and slid it onto her finger, wondering how he could have known her ring size. She watched as he hesitantly pulled its partner from his back pocket and put it on his own ring finger. The moment was precious to her, his long, sensitive fingers on the table, a wedding ring glittering there, her hand inches away bearing a matching ring. She clicked a mental shutter button and filed the image in her mind, part wish, part torture and then smiled at him, holding the pain inside like a precious gift. She was queasy with nostalgia and yearning and even his smile seemed tremulous and unconvincing as she excused herself and hurried off to the kitchen, waving away his offer of help to clean up.

She couldn’t imagine how it was for him, to be free of the urges that complicated her life. Was he sad that he didn’t feel the way that stupid straights like her felt with their messy libidos and irrational kinks or was it liberating not to be at the mercy of desires that one couldn’t control? If she could stop wanting him, they could be best friends again, like when they were children, before her inconvenient hormones made her want him in ways he could never reciprocate.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

She was up, dressed, pouring coffee into a travel mug by the time he emerged the next morning, blinking in the bright daylight like a kitten. “Coffee in the pot, cereal in the pantry but if you take my advice you’ll go into town and get beignets for your breakfast. There’s a place off Canal Street, follow your nose,” she told him, still unrelentingly the lark in contrast to his owl.

“I would but I’m stranded out here in suburbia like a Stepford husband,” he replied with a downturned mouth.

“There’s a surprise for you in the garage. And yes, I am the best and yes it’s hired on expenses so be careful and don’t smash it up. Anyway I have to go to work. See you tonight.”

“Bye honey, don’t work too hard,” he called at her back as she let herself out.

As soon as she pulled away he headed to the garage, not daring to hope. As he opened the door he chuckled at how well she knew him. She was still a grease monkey at heart and it showed. A 650cc Yamaha with a V-Twin engine was waiting for him, chrome gleaming under the strip light. He chugged his coffee and dressed in a hurry, grinning when he noticed the helmet on the workbench with a sticky note that read “Wear this. I like your head.” He liked hers too, too much. He was roaring out of the garage less that fifteen minutes after she left, Gary shaking his head disapprovingly as he climbed into his dun coloured Toyota Camry.

It took only a day or two for Jughead to begin to fall in love with the City that Care Forgot, the music, the people and, unsurprisingly, the food. He didn’t like the suburban neighbourhood they’d washed up in, he couldn’t relate to any of the polo shirted white guys in New Balance sneakers who lived there, but downtown he immediately felt right at home. He’d planned to set the new book on Long Island but now he thought maybe his action would be better placed in New Orleans. He took to taking the bike into the city after she left in the morning and sitting in a cafe somewhere, trying to identify what the fuck that smell was. Eventually he’d analysed it out. There was always cooking grease mingling with cigarettes and dead fish. The pungent grassy odours of horse manure and weed came and went and the urine and vomit faded as one moved away from Bourbon Street. Strangely what remained wasn’t unpleasant. He began to understand what Betty had said about being able to know where you were downtown with your eyes closed. The whirring squeak of the streetcars identified the main thoroughfares, the smell of the river grew stronger as you walked through the French Quarter, the sounds of brass and funk buffeting you as you approached Frenchmen Street. The tourists seemed to stick to Bourbon Street despite the crush and the smell but he liked the quieter neighbourhoods where old guys greeted each other by familiar nicknames and looked at the white boy with the notebook curiously. He found that a smile and a nod generally amounted to an introduction in those neighbourhood bars and restaurants. Soon some old guy would be telling him about the time he played with Ellis Marsalis or how he came by this, lifting his pant leg to show off his prosthetic limb. When he told them he was a writer they’d quote Ernest J Gaines at him (“Only when the mind is free has the body a chance to be free.”) or ask him suspiciously if he wrote those vampire books. He denied all knowledge of any such books and they smiled a slow smile and agreed they must have imagined them.

He asked them the best places to eat and they directed him to back rooms and basements where he was served po’ boys, gumbo, barbecue shrimp or crawfish served in every way imaginable. He’d try to work out how everything was made, scribbling notes and impressions, until he realised that if he simply asked, the chef would appear, sit at his table and talk him through it, pleased that someone liked the dish enough to want to recreate it. It was in those back rooms and neighbourhood cafes that he began to ask questions about the StClairs too. Once he’d made a new friend he’d offer a little of his own history, the gang, the brushes with the law, the beatings he’d taken and given. Then he’d bring the conversation around to wondering about the little girl who’d cut her papa’s throat. Sometimes his pal would look nervous and make an excuse to leave but other times a garrulous acquaintance would fill in a little more of the story he was piecing together.

It turned out that Zander StClair was a bad guy even for a mobster. Sometimes those guys really did play by a twisted code of honour. They looked out for their own and only sank you into the foundations of a new highway if you deserved it. Xander had not been one of those gangsters. The cat houses and massage parlours he ran would not have garnered any more censure than the gambling joints or protection rackets if it were not that the girls were so often bruised, battered and dead eyed, held captive by a habit they couldn’t service outside their place of employment. Young boys were pulled into the transport of dangerous cargoes, guns, drugs, counterfeit money. A guy who had just made him a plate of charbroiled oysters that he would never forget, analysed the socioeconomics for him in a way that would have impressed Jug’s college professors. “After Katrina the weave of this city was pulled apart. There were gaps that hadn’t been there before. Those rebellious teenage girls who’d have gone to live with their aunties or their grandmas had nowhere to go, the boys whose daddies beat them them were stuck too, the ones whose mommas remarried a guy they couldn’t stand to be around were on the streets. Those children who are so tough at home are just babies out on their own, The bad guys could gather them up like ripe berries with the promise of a loaded needle or a few dollars. Anyway once he’d got them he could trade them, use them up, and if some off them jump off the CCC or the Algiers Ferry, or overdose in some alleyway, well they’re just broken little girls and boys without anyone to care about how they ended up that way.” Other guys told him stories of the desperate people who travelled across the Gulf, searching for a better life and finding only servitude and debt. The sex and drink, rich food and drugs were only part of the story of New Orleans. There was joy and resilience here for sure but there was desperation and exploitation, slavery and addiction too. It didn’t make him like the place less. It made him want to help.

Along with his information he’d pick up some crawfish to make ettouffee or andouille sausage for jambalaya and go home to cook dinner for his wife, careful to remind himself that she was not, in reality, his beautiful wife and the place on Southwood Plantation Road was not his beautiful house. Everything was the same as it had ever been, she didn't want him. Despite that he started breaking his own rules and then making new, less stringent, more accommodating ones before breaking them too. No touching her he’d said before he arrived but then he stepped off the plane and immediately took her in his arms. Friendly hugs only he said and then he found himself on the couch with her, her feet on his thighs, his fingers resting on her ankles. It was just companionable he muttered, nothing that could be construed as sexual. It took Wes Anderson to show him how hard he was kidding himself. She queued Moonrise Kingdom and he nodded with a slightly mocking smile and said “Yep, that tracks.” When she raised an eyebrow he told her that she should have chosen Steve Zissou to which she responded that he was only interested in that because of the preponderance of beanies. He grabbed her foot and tickled her as he had when they were children, once until she had screamed with laughter and wet herself, running home to change, purple with shame. This time the physiological embarrassment was his. He had to ask himself why, if this was all so platonic, was he hard and straining painfully against his jeans as she kicked and snorted with laughter. The effort not to reach for her almost killed him, struggling not to kiss her as he longed to, not to put his hand on her breast hoping that his desire would make her see him as a man and not her awkward friend, the weirdo with a stupid hat that he’d been in high school. He stood abruptly, told her they’d watch whichever she chose, and went to the bathroom to recite Hiawatha from memory until his situation improved. 

It was so tragic that he’d never moved on from the girl who had fuelled every sexual fantasy that he’d ever had. For a few weeks the summer before he turned thirteen he’d lived in Archie’s treehouse. Her bedroom window had tortured him. There had been one night when she hadn’t quite closed her curtains. He’d tried not to look, he’d stared unblinkingly at his shoes until his eyes swam with tears but his resolve had broken and he had gawped at her. A thin line of pale skin, a bra strap, nothing that he hadn’t seen at the swimming hole a hundred times but it was the first time he understood the meaning of the word erotic. He’d turned away, put his jacket over his head and hated himself for hours until he’d fallen asleep. When Reggie had shown him the most graphic pornography on his computer screen a few weeks later, trying to shock him, it had absolutely no effect but the thought of Betty Cooper’s bra strap had him hard in an instant. It had always only been her.

Still he had everything else. He saw her everyday, a grey business suit in the morning, a venerable River Vixens hoodie and leggings as she sat across the table from him making sinful noises in response to whatever he’d cooked. Whatever she was wearing, whether laughing at his jokes or dozing against his chest on the couch because he insisted on choosing nouvelle vague movies that sent her off to sleep in minutes, she was always so beautiful.


	4. Our Conversations Are Like Minefields

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The accountant, the maid and the bayou.

As she had driven away from the house that first morning she’d found herself smiling as she thought of his birds’ nest hair and the lines on his cheek caused by his endearing habit of sleeping with his face pressed into his pillows and the comforter over his head. She hoped she’d done the right thing with the bike. She’d lied a little, she had tried to get Léonie to cover the cost but it had been a no-go. Still it was worth it if it made him happy. She also hoped he’d learned some caution in the last few years. If he ended up wrapping himself around a tree on it she’d never forgive herself.

She pulled up at the StClair house hoping that the smell of blood would have had time to dissipate. No doubt someone had been paid a pittance to swap out the rugs and drapes. Blood was a tough stain as Betty knew only too well, almost as hard to launder from the furnishings as from the memory. A nervous girl showed her through to the office where Mr Duvivier, her boss for the next few days was already ensconced behind file boxes and a brace of laptops. They’d been introduced briefly by Léonie who had refused him any information about why he was employing Mrs Jones so she had no intention of letting down her guard. “Ah, Elizabeth.”

“Oh call me Lizzy, please,” she interjected. Elizabeth made her feel like a recalcitrant teen, it was what her mother used.

“By all means, Lizzy then. You’re very prompt. Désirée will bring you some coffee, right Désirée?” The nervous girl nodded and scurried away, clearly relieved to have an excuse to get out of the room. Betty hoped Duvivier hadn’t given her any reason to be scared of him.

Betty’s duties were pretty menial, cross checking and reconciling columns of figures as Duvivier passed them to her. She was wearing a silver jump drive around her neck disguised as a piece of jewellery but she quickly understood that she was not going to be seeing anything incriminating in her professional capacity. Nevertheless she had been brought up to put her nose to the grindstone and work hard, she could bide her time. Her boss made a half hearted attempt at flirtation but she closed down his offer of a drink when they finished for the day by saying that her husband was cooking a special meal to celebrate their new home. “It’s such a relief to have him away from that nasty, violent gang,” she smiled sweetly as Duvivier gulped and turned back to the spreadsheets. 

There were moments that week when she forgot that this was a charade and in those moments she was happy. For the first time she felt like she understood what had driven Veronica to get married right out of college, the cosy domesticity, the comfort of knowing someone was waiting for her. They quickly settled into a routine. She returned home each evening to a home cooked meal and interesting conversation. She found herself taking note of the little occurrences in her day so she could tell him about them to make him smile. She’d have liked to show him a little of the nightlife of the city but that seemed too close to asking him on a date so instead they watched movies together as they had done throughout high school, each of them taking turns to choose, her feet keeping warm under his knees. Soon she was thinking that this would be enough to make a life from, it was so much more than many people had. Everyone said that sex wasn’t such a big deal after a few years of a relationship anyway. To have respect and affection for your partner surely mattered more. Which would all be fine if only she didn’t want him so damn much. That problem was exacerbated by his proximity. He’d emerge blearily from his room in the mornings to say goodbye to her, wearing just a pair of jeans. She’d think about putting her hand on his taut stomach, touching the line of dark hair that disappeared into his waistband, that idea crashing about in her head from the moment she pulled away from the house until she had to check Duvivier’s calculations, the numbers swimming in front of her eyes. She wished there was some way to be like him, to turn off the inconvenient longing, the fantasising, the need. She couldn’t imagine how it was for him, to be free of the urges that complicated her life. Was he sad that he didn’t feel the way that stupid straights like her felt with their messy libidos and irrational kinks or was it liberating not to be at the mercy of desires that one couldn’t control? If she could stop wanting him, they could be best friends again, like when they were children, before her inconvenient hormones made her ache for him in ways he could never reciprocate.

When she wasn’t thinking about Jughead’s smooth olive skin and dark hair she was worrying about Désirée. 

From the first day she had been aware of the girl, had recognised something in her watchfulness. She was always on the qui vive and Betty wanted to know why. She made a point of helping her when she brought them coffee, of standing to open the door when she collected the tray, even though the girl always cast her eyes downward and murmured, “It’s okay ma’am, I can manage.” Betty wanted to get an opportunity to speak to her alone, domestic staff always knew what went on in a home and a staff member this nervous might not be averse to spilling what she knew. The girl might be just who she needed for her investigation. And if not, Betty wanted to help the kid if she could.

She’d found out a long time ago that the trick with getting what you wanted out of folks was to make them think your scheme was their own idea, to inception them and not to challenge their prejudices. After a few days of wistfully reminiscing about the deli sandwiches that she had been accustomed to eating for lunch in some imagined New York life that she’d never really lived, Duvivier finally took the bait. “You ought to fix us some Lizzy. I’d like to see if they can match a N’awlins muffaletta. I’m sure the girl can show you where everything is. I can ring for her.”

“No need. I’m sure I can find my way,” Betty replied, eager for the chance to snoop unobserved.

A few minutes later she was in the huge kitchen. The exposed brick and dark wood made it an oppressive space and as she entered Désirée seemed to be in a world of her own, startling with a sharp cry when Betty said her name. Betty understood why she would be anxious in the pale, expensive, family parts of the house where it seemed that just existing would stain the silks or smear the sheen but she was just as highly strung here where she might surely have felt safer. Betty apologised for scaring her and assembled her ingredients and began work on the sandwiches while Désirée prepared a tray for Madame who was apparently not leaving her room since what Désirée termed “that night.” 

“How is it working here? Do you like it?” Betty asked in a conversational tone.

“It’s better than the alternative,” Désirée replied as if it were well understood that there was only one other option available to her.

Betty smiled, going for an encouraging older sister vibe, “You could do something else. Go to school? Did you get your high school diploma?” Désirée laughed harshly at that.

“I didn’t really have any school after seventh grade. My family situation wasn’t the best. I’m lucky to have this job ma’am.” Her voice was flat and low as if she were afraid to be heard.

“Well you seem like you could do anything you wanted. You’re smart and so pretty. Don’t sell yourself short.”

Désirée stared at her feet as she replied. “I have to look after myself. I don’t have anyone to take care of me. I can’t just go off to school.”

Betty nodded, “I understand. But my husband was on his own too, he had a difficult background. He got a full ride for college though. Maybe we can help.” It was one of the things that made her proudest of him, his focus, his eagerness to learn. Not that he was hers to be proud of, she reminded herself. 

Désirée nodded doubtfully, “If you’ll excuse me I have to take Madame’s tray.” The cup rattled as she picked up the tray, she was shaking.

That evening Jug was pulling a huge casserole dish from the oven as she stepped through the door. “Cassoulet,” he said as she raised an enquiring eyebrow. “With confit duck and andouille sausage.”

“Sounds great,” she sighed as she sank into the couch, lacking the energy to change her clothes. 

He put the dish on a trivet and came to stand over her, noticing her tiredness. She looked up at him, trying to hide how much he affected her. His eyes on her felt as intimate as another man running his hands over her skin. He moved around to stand behind the couch, reaching out to work on the knots in her shoulders. His fingers were strong, his touch confident and decisive. He knew what he was doing and the tension oozed from her as he massaged her tight muscles. Regardless of where they were in their relationship her body trusted him implicitly and eagerly responded to him. She decided not to think about what anything meant but rather to simply allow him to help her, to enjoy the sensation of relaxation and peace he was able to give her. Soon she felt pliant and warm under his hands but he didn’t stop. His fingers ghosted across the back of her neck and down, under the collar of her blouse, touching skin that hadn’t be touched by another person in longer than she cared to recall. The feeling that began to stir was not relaxation anymore, but she didn’t have the resolve to stop him. He pushed his thumbs either side of her spine and she couldn’t hold in a soft exclamation of pleasure and relief. Shocked to have given herself away she looked up into his blue eyes and found him watching her like Caramel had watched birds from the windowsill. He pulled away sharply, “Come on, get into your sweats,” he mumbled. “I’ll plate up. It’s had time to rest now.”

As she brushed her hair in her room she wondered if he had any idea what he’d been doing to her. Maybe those thoughts simply never crossed his radar or maybe he knew exactly but he was teasing her, not understanding how much it hurt her not to be able to have what his fingers had been promising. 

They ate quietly, her body still tingling from his touch, him seeming lost in thoughts of his own. He told her about seeing his first jazz funeral on his expedition into the city and about the day’s neighbourhood encounter when Gary and his pal Jerry had asked him to play golf with them at the weekend. He’d cried off with the excuse that the Joneses were going to be busy fixing up the new house, adding “And I didn’t mention that I’m of the opinion that golfers should all be beaten to death with their own clubs and buried under the fairways. Which showed great tact and restraint on my part.” She laughed. She’d forgotten what a simple pleasure it was to eat with a companion. Simple but important.

As she collected the empty plates to begin the clean up, her phone rang and he gestured for her to take the call while he took care of it. Veronica launched into a long story about the difficulty of finding a really reliable wine merchant on the Upper West Side while Betty murmured her assent and went to lie on her bed to listen. Eventually her friend asked how Betty was doing in the Big Easy. Betty told her she was working a new case and then shyly said, “Jug’s here. He’s helping me.” The shriek from the receiver was loud enough to be heard in Baton Rouge and Betty held it away from her ear.

“I knew you two would make up eventually. Are you still crushing on him, because this could be your perfect opportunity B. You can be Stella to his Stanley. All that steamy southern sexual tension is making me feel hot.”

“You know that’s never going to happen V. Some people just don’t.”

“Well that’s true of some people but it isn’t true of him. He was fuckbuddies with Toni and she’s gone back to Cheryl so he’s probably lonely too. Primed and ready to get with you, you beautiful goddess.”

“What?” Betty gasped, unable to process this information.

“Yep, Archie told me. We were totally wrong about Jones. Archie says it’s been going on for years. No romance apparently but when Toni and Cheryl are on one of their breaks she and Jug get their kicks with each other. Then she goes back to Cheryl and they stop. Isn’t that splendidly mature? I can just imagine them doing it, him all long and lean and earnest and her, a tiny ball of passion and energy. Oh, sorry Betty. I guess you don’t want to think about that do you?”

“No, not really V… Anyway how’re Freddie and Arch?”

She zoned out from Veronica’s reply. So he wasn’t immune. He did feel the same sexual drives as everyone else, just not for her, never for her, even when she had tried to throw herself at him, humiliated herself in front of him. He wasn’t horrified by the idea of sex, just sex with her. “Are you over it?” he’d asked before he’d agreed to come down here, not wanting to come if she was going to be lusting for him like an animal in heat. She lurched through the rest of the call, suppressing her tears, struggling not to give herself away. All those glitzy mardi gras costumes were an illusion, paint and glitter hiding cardboard and chicken wire. A Louisiana rainstorm could wash away the glamour, leaving nothing but some bent wire and bedraggled feathers amongst the sodden, slimy papier maché, the dancer revealed as nothing a silly girl trying to live a N’awlins fantasy. Veronica’s gossip had been the downpour that she’d needed to wake her the hell up. He didn’t want her, specifically and categorically her. Ten minutes later she was in her bed, the comforter pulled around herself, sobbing into the pillow. When he knocked on the door softly a little later to say, “No movie tonight?” she felt like he was wrenching out her heart with those long, strong dextrous fingers. Before the call she might have convinced herself that he sounded disappointed. Now she knew that was childish make-believe.

“Sorry Jug. So tired,” she called back and listened to his slow footsteps, away from her door, back to the living room. She would try to make sure she was gone in the morning before she had to see him leaning into the refrigerator, all worn denim and warm skin.  
______________________________________________________________________________________

He’d been waiting for an opportunity to share some news about his investigations when Veronica had called. He decided that it would keep and settled down to watch “The 400 Blows” alone. The New Wave bored her anyway. He liked it, liked the space in it for interpretation and ambiguity. She’d always preferred her narrative a little more pinned down. He understood why she’d retreated into her cocoon. He guessed that it must be hard for her to talk to her friend about her husband and the baby. He didn’t try to make her talk about her pain. He’d let her have the space to feel sad. He wondered whether she was still jealous or just nostalgic. He’d understood that he couldn’t have her very early and, even though it had been painful, he thought it must be easier than ever having hoped that things could be different.

Back in high school, while he longed for her and dreamed of her like a teen Cyrano, there had already been someone else. Their friends would tease her about never accepting dates until one day at lunch she’d snapped at them, “I’m in love with someone, okay? I don’t want to date anyone who isn’t him.” Everyone had paused in the middle of their chewing and giggling and stared at her as the blush rose up her cheeks until even the roots of her hair were burning with it. 

He’d taken her elbow saying, “Hey boss, we need to edit that article. Come on, let’s get to it,” grabbing her backpack along with his own and leading her away to the Blue and Gold office, her face still scarlet with shame. Once there he’d laughed it off. “Come on Betts, they’ll have forgotten it by the end of the day. And whoever the guy is, well if he isn’t interested he’s an asshole, and you’ll find someone way better. I’m sure it’ll work out fine.”

And he’d thought that it had, because a couple of weeks later she was dating Trev Brown and, even though Jughead was so jealous that it gave him hives, he couldn’t find a bad word to say about Trev. She’d seemed so passionate that day that he'd wondered why it had fizzled out as high school ended and why they hadn’t done the long distance thing that most couples tried, at least until Thanksgiving of junior year. Now he understood it must have been because it was never Trev that she’d been talking about.

Sometimes back then he’d naively wondered if he could make himself into a person who would be worthy of her. He’d thought of her as he cracked the books every Friday and Saturday nights, doing the reading, writing the essays even when he had no roof over his head. If he could get to college, maybe then he could be someone else, lifted out of the Southside and into whatever classless idyll college men occupied. He’d gotten a full ride at Columbia, made excellent grades, written for the Daily Spectator and built an impressive portfolio. He’d chosen his major because a journalist might be able to offer a woman a secure life when a literary author could not. She’d never need him to support her but at least he wouldn’t be a burden, a financial millstone. Then, in senior year, he’d allowed himself to dream. They met often at Archie and Veronica’s weekend parties and sometimes he thought that he caught a glance that was more than affectionate, kidding himself. He knew she dated and he saw Toni sometimes in a recreational sense but they never talked about that. There were books and movies and politics and mysteries to discuss.

And then, just as he began to seriously consider the possibility that she might conceivably be his one day, she’d broken his heart. She was Beatrice to his pining Dante, dead to him, a ghost haunting Friends-giving or 4th July parties that he had to stay away from if he were to preserve his sanity. Eventually he realised that his career was what he had wanted in a version of reality that would never exist. Since there was only himself to damage if it went wrong, he decided to try to write as he had always wanted to. He had literally nothing to lose.

The movie ended and he went outside to stand on the porch and smoke a cigarette. It had been a trying evening and he deserved some comfort he told himself. As he stood there he thought he saw someone under a huge live oak across the street. He peered into the darkness but the figure seemed to melt away as he watched. He would have been worried but for the impression that it had been a young girl, not some tough guy gangster. He’d probably imagined it, he thought, stubbing out the cigarette and taking it with him, leaving no evidence for the detective he lived with.

The following day he followed up his lead. He’d fallen into conversation with the cook in a backstreet restaurant off Burgundy over recipes for gumbo when he had secured what locals would have called a lagniappe, a little extra treat to accompany his meal. He’d mentioned that he was new to the city, his wife was working for the StClairs. His new pal had whistled through his teeth. “They’re a big deal here. Important people. They have this country place out by Bayou Lafourche. Good eating out there too.” He proceeded to write the names of some restaurants on a paper napkin and Jughead said he’d be sure to try them out, asking directions. So he was heading out of the city on a hunch to see what Carondelet Plantation House might have to tell him.

The ride took about an hour and he enjoyed the wide flat roads flanked by dense evergreens. The houses had deep shaded porches and rusted trucks in the driveways. Nothing seemed new here, the roads were patched, the architecture ad hoc, the stores repurposed. It was a thrifty aesthetic that made him feel at home. 

He found the mansion just before lunchtime. He left the bike back up the road, hidden in the vegetation and walked down, so as not to alert the residents with his engine. He needn’t have bothered, it seemed deserted, no cars in the driveway, no movement behind the closed windows. It was an impressive antebellum place near the water, white as a wedding cake and just as performative. There were great pillars, supporting a portico that gave shade to the porch that ran along the entire outside edge of the house. He could imagine the slave owners and their ladies sipping iced drinks there while the folks who created their wealth and leisure sweated over sugar cane or whatever backbreaking labour they had been set to. The windows were tall and evenly spaced and the roof supported a cupola. It would be cool and bright inside. It was a fine house as long as one didn’t think of who had built it and who had paid for it. 

He skulked around the property, finding a gap where the fence ran up to the still water of the bayou. Approaching the back of the mansion he noticed a rusted metal structure behind the grand house. He’d seen Django, he knew what it was. He walked over to the hot box, shivering a little even though the day was perfectly warm, knowing the agony that had been inflicted on slaves in that place and wondering why the hell it was still in place. What kind of people would want a constant reminder that their forebears were monsters? He had the same feeling that had been his constant companion when he encountered real evil as a reporter. As he looked at the box he noticed a stain on the ground. He crouched and put out his fingers, the dirt was dark and when he brought them to his nose he thought he smelled iron. It felt like a clue but this was Betty’s case. He was trespassing and nothing he saw could be used by the lawyer. He’d report back like a responsible employee but he knew there was definitely a story here. He just hoped it wasn’t the same story that had been played out in this place for two hundred years. 

______________________________________________________________________________________

At work Betty kept finding excuses to visit the StClair kitchen. Some days it was a posy of fresh flowers to brighten the room that she just needed to put into water. The day after Veronica’s bombshell she brought a package of cookie dough in her tote bag that she could offer to pop into the oven for a fresh baked snack to accompany Duvivier’s morning coffee. Désirée had been persuaded to call her Betty instead of ma’am and she smiled in a hesitant greeting when Betty appeared in the doorway. Betty decided it might be time to ask the big questions.

“Hey Désirée, did you know Madame’s daughter. Mr Duvivier says she killed her papa. Was she a crazy person?”

“She’s not crazy. She’s…” Betty turned as Désirée caught herself, actually biting her lip to stop the words. Her eyes were fierce, but there was something else too, something that Betty found it hard to place even though it sparked a pang of recognition in her heart. Perhaps it was hopelessness. She needed to make a connection to the girl. She knew something, Betty was sure of it, but she wasn’t going to tell some woman in a pantsuit who seemed to be on the side of the grey-haired white guys in one of those oyster coloured rooms upstairs. A risk needed to be taken and Betty never shied away from a risk.

She stepped over to Désirée and took her hand where it gripped the countertop. “Désirée, I’m not really an accountant. I’m working for Manon’s attorney. We don’t think she’s guilty, or at least we think she must have had a really good reason for what she did. Don’t you want to help her?”

Heavy tears began to roll silently down the girl’s cheeks as she shook her head. Eventually she gasped out, “I can’t help her. She doesn’t want that. But, if you see her, please... tell her that Désirée prays one word. Excuse me ma’am.”

“What’s the word?” Betty called after her retreating back.

That night, as they ate, he brought her up to speed with his investigation out on the bayou and she told him about her latest conversation with Désirée. He mused over why the girl might be unable to confide in Betty. “Maybe they have something on her? Maybe she knows something that might be dangerous for her?” he suggested.

Once they had cleared away she scrolled through movies that they had either seen or decided were too cringeworthy to begin. As she did so he reached out and pushed a strand of her hair behind her ear in a gesture of such tenderness that her heart felt hot and bruised in her chest. She paused in her scrolling and turned to look at him, wondering what the expression was that she could see in his eyes. It seemed to ask a question but she didn’t know how to respond. She wanted to kiss him so badly that she mimicked Désirée, biting down on her lip. At that moment the doorbell rang.

Jughead got up and called out “Who is it?”

“Désirée, from Ms Jones’ work,” came the reply and Jug flung open the door and the scared girl hurried inside.

She was trembling with nerves and her eyes were full of unshed tears. Betty rushed to put her arms around her and move her toward the couch. Jug disappeared into the kitchen to make hot tea. “What is it Désirée? Are you in danger? Tell us how we can help.”

“I’m sorry ma’am. I followed you. I’ve been trying to work up the courage to ask you to help me for days. I can’t go through with it. I thought I could. She made it all make sense that night but now it’s been days and days and she won’t help herself. She’ll go to jail for years and it’s not right but I don’t know what to do.”

“Just tell us what happened and we’ll help you. It is can’t be worse than it is now.” Betty hoped she wouldn’t live to regret that foolhardy assertion.

“Manon didn’t kill her papa. I did.”


	5. The Dead Will Walk Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Declarations and dinner parties

Betty slumped onto the couch next to Désirée. The girl’s confession had completely blindsided her. How had she missed that? Manon’s rudeness made perfect sense. She was a very smart girl. She’d deliberately made herself unsympathetic so that Betty would believe her to be capable of murder, of patricide. Now she just needed to know why. 

Désirée tried to calm herself as best she could between sobs and gasping panic. Jug went to the liquor cabinet returning to pour a slug of brandy into her tea and then, catching Betty’s eye, poured a shot into her cup as well. “Okay, before you say another word I need to make a call,” she said.

She disappeared into her bedroom and Jug could hear her voice but not what she was saying. When she returned she handed her phone to Désirée and said, “You’re about to hire an attorney.”

“I can’t afford that,” protested the girl in alarm but Betty hushed her.

“Pro bono.” She looked bewildered so Betty explained, “It’s free. Just say yes.”

She seemed desperate for someone to tell her what to do so she just said “Yes, okay, yes ma’am,” in response to whatever she was asked. 

Betty took the phone back, “So I’m covered by privilege for Désirée too? And you’ll add Mr Jones as a supplementary agent? That’s great Léonie. Thanks so much. No, I’ll keep you informed. Okay, night.”

Jug sent her an enquiring look. “So Léonie Parmentel is your attorney and we work for her. That means that we can’t be forced to reveal anything that you tell us to the court. It’s as if you said it to your lawyer, okay? We must have been distracted when you started telling us and we didn’t hear what you said, did we Jug? So now tell us the whole story.”

Désirée told her story, tearfully, with many backtracks and diversions, Jug making copious notes and doubling back to ask supplementary questions. Finally by midnight they had the narrative squared away. Désirée had been born a year before Katrina had ripped the city apart. Her older brother Anton had been four when the floods had destroyed their home. Their mother had picked up her babies and fled the city, leaving their daddy behind to salvage what he could from their home in Lakeview. None of them ever saw him again. Maybe he drowned or got sick, maybe he just fled when the enormity of their loss became clear, feeling himself unequal to the task of beginning again with a family to care for. She didn’t remember him and her mother never spoke of him so she had no clue what kind of man he had been. They had moved back to the city when she was three but by then their momma was broken by grief and trauma and drinking to hide it. There were scary men in their house, their mother rarely made it up in time for them to go to school, they lived in houses and apartments with mould on the walls where they didn’t know their neighbours. It took eight more years for their mother to drink herself to death. Once the children were in the system it was a matter of time before they were on the streets more often than they were in a classroom. By the time Anton was sixteen he had a job. He wouldn’t tell her what he had to do but there was money at last so she didn’t ask too many questions. She knew he worked for Mr St Clair, that he sometimes had to leave town for a few days, but when he came back he bought her ice cream. Life seemed good for a couple of years given how things had been. Eventually he told her that the housekeeper at the StClair place was looking to hire a new maid and Anton suggested her. She lied about her age and was taken on, a safe room of her own to live in with a lock on the door, a pay cheque at the end of each month, it felt like safety. She even formed a friendship with the StClair’s daughter, giggling together and dancing to pop songs when she was supposed to be vacuuming. 

Then, last November, Anton had become anxious and distant. She had questioned him, concerned by the blank look in his eyes and his refusal to talk to her. Eventually he had confessed, in tears, that he couldn’t live with himself, with the things he was being asked to do. He didn’t care about the strip clubs or the betting, not even the drugs. Folks could make their own choices about how they lived. It was the way that the StClairs staffed those businesses that troubled him, kids off the streets who needed help but instead found themselves working in the massage parlours and bordellos, desperate immigrants paying to be enslaved to the StClairs or whoever they sold their debts on to. He couldn’t live like that anymore. She told him they’d leave, their jobs, the city if need be. He nodded and said he’d think about it but then he went missing, disappeared without a word. She was frantic with worry because she knew that her brother would never abandon her. Mr StClair was too scary to confront and she couldn’t afford to lose her job so Manon suggested that they ask her brother Nick. He knew about the business and he’d surely help them to find Anton when he understood how devoted the siblings were. That decision had set something in motion that ended with Manon behind bars and Désirée crying into the couch cushions. Nick had told them he would make some enquiries but he came to the girls with sadness in his eyes and said that Anton was most likely dead. He didn’t know all the details but he told them that her brother had been moving a valuable cargo on the river when a police launch had stopped him. He had thrown the cargo overboard, drugs Désirée assumed. Apparently Xander had not been in a forgiving mood. “He had a couple of the guys take Anton out to the bayous. They came back and he didn’t.” He told her that he hated the way his father ran the family, had pleaded with him to step back from the drugs and the trafficking and the violence but Xander wouldn’t hear of it, wouldn’t listen to his ideas. They were at an impasse and Anton’s death was the consequence. 

Jughead raised his eyebrows meaningfully at Betty and she remembered the blood he’d found on the ground at the plantation house. That seemed likely to have been the final stop for Anton, a grisly reprise of how the StClair family had always dealt with the disobedient and recalcitrant.

Désirée hadn’t been able to put Anton out of her mind for a moment. All of the losses that she had suffered seemed to crowd around her, screaming to be acknowledged, even as her friend Manon tried to comfort her. Everyday she had to take the man who had killed her brother his coffee, smiling as if she didn’t hate him with all the passion that she was capable of feeling. She thought about her brother as she cleaned the staircases, as she washed down the windows, as she jointed chicken for the evening meal. Then, without remembering making the decision to go, she was standing in front of Xander StClair. “I asked him why he had my brother killed, told him he was a coward and a murderer. He got mad, pulled my hair back hard and spat in my face. I was holding the boning knife, I didn’t know I had it until I swiped at him and then blood was spraying out like he was a broken fire hydrant, spattering all over me, so hot and thick, in my mouth, in my eyes. Manon heard me scream. She ran in and took the knife from me. He was already on the floor, grey, it happened so fast, seconds. It was obvious that there was nothing that could be done to save him. She put her arms around me, didn’t even care that she was getting covered in blood. She told me to get ahold of myself, to go get cleaned up. I wanted to tell the police what I’d done right away but she said that they’d send me to jail forever. A poor black girl kills some rich white man in his own living room after he took her in and gave her a job? Manon told me that if she confessed she’d be out in a couple of years and it’d all be okay. Her family had money, she said, they’d get her the best lawyers. Rich white girls get to go to prisons that are like resorts, she said. I was shaking, I couldn't think and she seemed so sure. And, God forgive me, I did as she told me. But now you say she might get life, for what I did. I have to go to the police.”

Betty pulled an elastic from her pocket and scraped her hair back in a gesture that signified work mode. “Okay. I hear what you’re saying but maybe we can do better. You can confess anytime before she's convicted, after if necessary. Let’s exhaust all the options before we go nuclear. We need to think. We need time to make a plan. I’m going to drive you home but Jughead and I are going to work on it. I promise that we’re going to do all that we can to help you.”

Jug snatched up the keys to his bike. “I’ll take her. We can’t afford for you to be seen driving her about at night, people will ask questions that we don’t want to have to answer. Come on Désirée. If anyone asks, say you were on a date.” As the bike roared away outside Betty threw herself onto the couch and thought about Jug on a date, Jug with Toni, Jug as a man who dated women. Women who weren’t her. She hated that she was still distracted by this even when the case was beginning to open up to them.

When he got back she was still lying on the couch staring at the ceiling. He stepped over and lifted her feet to sit, pulling her legs onto his lap. “Thanks for taking her home Jug. But don’t take her on a date will you?”

“A sixteen year old child? What the hell do you think I am?”

“Jug, I honestly have no clue. Toni?” she whispered.

He flushed. “Fucking Archie. He’s such a gossip. Yeah well we’re buddies. We both know where we stand, that we aren’t ever going to get overly involved so….it is what it is. Do you disapprove?”

“No. I just…I guess I thought I was your buddy.”

“Huh? I don’t follow.” He stared at her in confusion. Clearly his conception of her was as a completely sexless creature.

“Nothing. I was just surprised that you hadn’t mentioned it. But no big deal. Not my business.”

“I don’t understand why it’s an issue. We’ve just never talked about that stuff. Except…that night.”

“No… right. You’re right. That didn’t go so well. But you know you can talk to me about it, about anything.”

“I think we’re fine Betts. I don’t need to share the grisly details of my sex life or hear about yours. Really.”

“Okay. Well thanks for helping with Désirée. I’m going to bed.”

She lay awake most of the night, thinking about that vulnerable girl, wondering what had befallen Anton, finally unable to stop herself, thinking about Archie and Veronica’s engagement party. The happy couple had been at the heart of a knot of friends and family. Veronica’s aunts and cousins all needed to kiss the bride-to-be and her handsome betrothed, while Archie’s football pals were clapping him on the back in a way that looked like it would leave bruises. This, Betty had supposed, was her moment. She’d turned to Jughead and placed her hand over his on the table.

“Come outside with me for a moment? Breath of air?” 

He turned his perceptive blue eyes on her, solicitous as always. “Sure, it’s pretty stuffy in here. In all senses of the words.” He grinned that same lopsided grin that she’d loved since they were ten years old, running around the neighbourhood trying to solve the mystery of Dr Bellum’s missing cat or learn the true story behind Miss Wyndham’s lost love. They made their way out onto a terrace. She was trembling at the thought of what she was about to do.

“You’re cold,” he murmured, slipping off his suit jacket and wrapping it around her shoulders. His warmth clung to it and she could smell his cigarette smoke and cologne on the fabric. It was like being embraced by him and that thought made her shiver even more. 

She took a deep breath and plunged, just as when they had gone to the swimming hole together, him edging in inch by inch while she simply jumped into the deepest water, knowing that he’d pull her out if she got into trouble. "Can we talk Jug? Seriously, I mean. I have… well not a problem but…”

He chuckled, “Course Betts. When have I not been here for you?”

“Ok, so there’s a guy.” 

He flinched as if she had raised her hand to strike him. She thought he paled a little too but it was hard to tell with him silhouetted in the borrowed light from the ballroom behind them. “Are you sure I’m the one you want to discuss this with? Wouldn’t Veronica be…” He looked panicked and she contemplated how it might be if she stopped now, laughed and made light of all this. She’d go back to school, wake every morning from a dream of him, sob every night for the lack of him, try to go on dates that would be awkward because she was comparing every man to him, think everyday of calling him up to have this exact conversation. 

It had to end and it was going to, here and now. “No. I need your perspective. Veronica can’t help me with this one.”

He braced himself, she could see his knuckles tight on the iron railings surrounding the terrace. He actually seemed to be frightened, her brave, determined boy who’d taken on gang members and drug dealers, who pursued danger rather than running from it. “Ok, go on then.”

She forged ahead. “There’s a guy. An old friend. I like him, no, that’s dishonest. I’m in love with him. I’ve known him…a long time. Years. Always. And I’m hopelessly in love with him and I guess that, if he was interested, he’d have let me know by now. But I can’t get over it. Can’t move on. I need to know if it's hopeless or if there might be some way to make it work. So should I tell him? Should I make some big declaration?” She stared at him, meeting his eyes and holding his gaze, the force of her will preventing him from looking away.

He seemed to summon up a reserve of courage and he looked at her defiantly as he replied. “I’m sorry Betty, I know it’s hard, believe me, I do, but you mustn’t do that.” He looked towards the ballroom as he spoke, perhaps hoping that someone would come out and rescue him, “You mustn’t destroy your friendship. You’d break everything apart forever. I think you just have to try to get past it as best you can. And if you can’t do that then it’s just a thing that you have to live with. Your friend has made his choice and you have to respect that.” 

The pain took a moment to register. It was the same as when she had accidentally sliced her finger down to the bone with the paring knife. There was the horrified realisation of the mistake and then there was the rush of adrenaline, making her woozy and disorientated, finally there was the agony and fear and confusion. She gasped in a sobbing breath, looked at him in desperate regret and shrugged his jacket off so it slid to the ground. He called out but she ran from the terrace, from the hotel, from New York, city and state. She didn’t stop running until she stepped off the train in New Haven. She had her answer. He couldn’t have been clearer. He had left her with absolutely no hope. It was a kindness in a way. He wouldn’t leave her pining and longing if he had the power to release her. She had thought at the time that he didn’t want anyone like that. Now she knew it was her that repulsed him.

She still had the case. She paid close attention to the accounts the next day. As an investigator one always began with establishing who gained from a crime. Manon had been sent to jail, Désirée was in agony, neither had gained anything from the terrible events of that night. Nick on the other hand had done very well from the murder. Betty wondered if he was the reformer he pretended to be or if it was just the same story of the rich white guy getting the poor black girl to do his dirty work. She could see that the StClairs owned a number of shell companies and so, playing the eager recruit, keen to learn, she asked Duvivier about them. He explained that some of the StClair’s businesses were less salubrious than others and so Mr Nick wanted to keep them at arm’s length from the family’s brand. “Is he going to sell them off or something now he’s in charge?” she asked innocently.

“No, of course not. This is New Orleans. Folks come here for a good time. He’s looking to expand that aspect of the business, buy some new properties. This is no time to be getting out of the adult entertainment business.”

Betty feigned agreement. She wondered if it was really Xander who had Désirée’s brother murdered or if Nick had predicted that Désirée would exact bloody revenge on whomever he implicated. Perhaps he had used her like a loaded gun to get what he wanted, a free rein. After lunch, as she began to contemplate an awkward evening with Jughead, the heir himself finally made an appearance, laptop under his arm, clearly ready to check on their progress. He greeted Duvivier with a side hug, “Almost done Joe? Am I rich?”

“A day or so more Nicholas but the bulk of it is in order if you want to see some figures. We'll make sure you take the helm without anything hanging over you. How are you bearing up? Have you seen your sister?”

“I’m keeping out of it. I hired a lawyer and I’m letting her deal with it. I thought we’d be best to go with insanity. Manon always was wild. I just didn’t think she’d be capable of this. Poor papa didn’t even see it coming.” He noticed Betty and turned to look at her enquiringly, “Oh I’m sorry, Nick St Clair…Miss?” He held out his hand. 

“Mrs Jones. I’m Mr Duvivier’s clerk. You have a lovely home sir.”

“Well thank you. Bad memories here for me now. I’m thinking of selling. So, to work?”

Nick set the laptop down next to Betty and prepared to go over the figures Duvivier had been compiling for him. As he did so Betty stood to helpfully close the drapes so that the low January sunlight wasn’t a distraction. If she took a second to watch StClair enter his password no-one noticed. The afternoon dragged interminably on, spreadsheet after spreadsheet, the accountant cantillating balance sheets as if they were holy writ and suggesting how best to minimise Nick’s estate tax liabilities. Betty made notes and wished she was anywhere but in that dim, stuffy, musty room. At last laptops were closed and attaché cases snapped shut. As they prepared to leave Nick took Duvivier’s arm, “Joe, you and Margaret must come for dinner, so I can thank you properly. Mrs Jones, you should come — bring your husband too, of course. Friday?”

It seemed to be agreed. Nick StClair was clearly used to getting what he wanted. Betty thought it would be an ideal opportunity to do some sleuthing. She stopped on the way home and bought a dress, trying not to think too carefully about who she hoped to impress.

__________________________________________________________________________________

Jughead wasn’t keen to go on a dinner date with a mobster but he was even less enamoured of the idea that she would go alone, so on Friday afternoon he dutifully shaved the scruff from his chin and changed into a button down shirt and a pair of honest to god slacks that he’d bought for an awards dinner when his editor had insisted that he couldn’t accept a statuette in Levis and army boots. When he emerged from his room it was to find her waiting for him wearing a dress made from some sort of soft blue fabric that seemed to force his eyes to the curve of her hip and the swell of her breast. He dragged his eyes to her face but before he could stop himself he was looking at her ass. He thought that she had caught his eyes sweeping across her body, at any rate there was a quizzical look in her eyes. 

She’d never grasped the idea that he wanted to be more than a best friend. Just as for her it had always been Archie, for him it had always been her. She still couldn’t talk to Veronica without needing to cry out her pain. He’d tried to expunge the night of the engagement party from his memory. He’d been so disappointed in her, that she could think of doing something so wrong, something that would have hurt Veronica so much, after all they had been to each other. And what did she imagine Archie would say, his ring on Veronica’s finger, her family congratulating them, his mother with tears of joy in her eyes. Did she think he would throw all of that over? How could she love him if she thought that he would do such a thing? He had kept his cool and warned her against whatever it was she was planning. He’d told her to live with it, wanting to add, “Like I have, every fucking, benighted day since I was twelve years old.” Why shouldn’t she live with loving someone who would never look at her like that, who’d be bewildered by her declaration, who she could just never have? She’d have to live with that delicious agony like he had, agony that seared and burned like ice against his skin and yet that he kept going back to, to make it burn again because then at least he was alive, at least he felt something.

He’d discovered a truth about love that night. He’d been so mad at her that he didn’t want to speak to her, he hated her choices, known that she was wrong, and yet he still loved her. Despite everything he would have died for her if she had asked it of him. He felt that way for her and, he supposed, for JB. No-one had ever felt it for him.

They were twelve for dinner and Jughead felt overwhelmed. He wished that he had absorbed some of Veronica’s savour faire. Fancy parties with endless silverware made him uncomfortable even now that he knew the etiquette. This one was worse than the norm. He was seated far from Betty who seemed to be enjoying the wine to an unusual degree. The boeuf bourguignon was disappointingly thin and under seasoned. He couldn’t be bothered to think of small talk to entertain Duvivier’s wife who had the misfortune to be seated next to him. Betty looked over as Jug nodded wordlessly in response to some remark about the refurbishment of the Botanical Gardens and said, “Mrs Duvivier, Jughead has become very interested in New Orleans cuisine. You don’t have any family recipes that you could share do you?” She was a genius; she’d unlocked the evening. By the end of dinner Jughead and Margaret Duvivier had formed a fast friendship, sharing tips on the best places to buy shrimp and planning a culinary expedition across the Causeway to Mandeville for what she asserted was the best catfish meuniere in the world. 

After dinner they moved into a drawing room which he could see made Betty nervous and he realised it must be the room in which the murder had occurred. It was macabre that Nick would choose to host his guests where his father had so recently drawn his last agonised breath. He wandered over to place a reassuring hand on her lower back and she looked up at him and kissed his cheek gently. It was a nice grace note in their newlywed act, he just wished that his body knew it was a pretence so that it didn’t make his heart thump and his palms sweat. “I was just telling Nick that we’ve been planning to see the countryside around the city darling. Do you have any suggestions? Where can we get lost amongst the bayous and gators?”

“Oh yes, you must get out into the country. I have so many happy memories of spending time with my late father on the bayous.” His wistful smile was a masterpiece if he was faking. Jug couldn’t tell if his own somewhat tumultuous relationship with his father made him chary of those with healthy paternal bonds but he was suspicious nonetheless. And Nick hadn’t even mentioned his own country mansion. That seemed a telling omission. He noticed that their host was refilling Betty’s glass yet again. She didn’t usually drink heavily and this wasn’t a social occasion. He wondered what was going on. As he watched her curiously he saw her tip most of the contents of her glass into a potted palm that stood next to them. She caught his eye and winked before nodding meaningfully at his glass, pretty much untouched in his hand. He stood behind her for a moment as if unable to restrain his need to embrace her and then without drawing anyone’s eye he followed suit with his own glass. He had no idea of the plan but he trusted her to have one.

The evening dragged on, the only entertainment was Betty’s increasingly giggly intoxication. He knew that she was a sentimental, tearful drunk rather than a silly one so this was definitely an act. Following her lead he slurred a little and took advantage of the opportunity to touch his bride more often that was strictly necessary. It was no hardship. Eventually Margaret Duvivier stirred herself and began to say her goodbyes. Betty looked around as if suddenly aware of her surroundings and yawned. “Mr StClair, sorry, Nick. I’m afraid the wine was rather too good. I think Jughead and I will need to call for a taxi and collect our car in the morning. I don’t want to cause an accident.”

“Nonsense,” said Nick imperiously. “You must stay here. There are plenty of rooms and you can eat a good breakfast and return home refreshed and safe. I’ll have the girl turn down a bed.”

Betty made some half hearted protest and then accepted the invitation. Jug understood. There was about be some night time perambulation in the StClair mansion. He was also aware that as newlyweds there would be only one room for the Joneses and that made a film of sweat break out on his top lip. He begrudged the pot plant last at least one of his glasses of wine.


	6. Whatever's Left In Me To Get

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sex, lies and videos

Eventually the other guests departed and Nick indicated the room allocated to the Joneses with all the condescension Jughead would expect from a guy in his mid twenties who owned not one but two mansions. “Sleep well,” he called as he disappeared down a hallway, Betty carefully watching which room he went to so they could avoid disturbing their host with their nocturnal rambling. “Is he a dick or do I have a chip on my shoulder?” he muttered under his breath.

“Yes and yes,” she replied with a pert smile.

Jughead opened the door that Nick had indicated with the resigned air of a man entering the death chamber. He had no idea how he could be expected to get through the night in such close quarters with her. It was as bad as he feared, a four poster bed, decidedly not king sized and one uncomfortable looking armchair. He turned to her and in a low voice said, “So, Columbo, what’s your plan?”

“I’d like to see his computer,” she said decisively, “l don’t like how well everything has worked out for him. Makes me suspicious.” He’d enjoyed her dedication to a case when they were rifling through the garbage outside the Diaz’s house at eleven years old to discover whether the costume shop was a front for an international spy agency. He found he liked it even more when they might be uncovering a real crime.

They waited for the household to settle down to sleep. He couldn’t say what made him more anxious, the prospect of the stealth mission or the awkward and uncomfortable night that would follow it. He wished he had a cigarette, even if just to hold, to quell his nervous twitching. She smiled knowingly at him as he fiddled with his hair and bit his nails, reaching for her purse and pulling a new pack of Marlboro from its depths. “Here, will this help? If we get caught you can say we were trying to get outside to smoke.”

“Thanks Betts. I have almost quit,” he muttered, aware that he’d been less successful in concealing his continuing dependency from her than he’d thought. She always seemed to know everything about him. Everything, that was, except for the fact that he was desperately in love with her. 

“S’okay. I knew, you still smelled like you when I met you from the plane but you seemed to want me to believe you’d beaten the habit so I played along. I was hoping we’d get the chance for some snooping tonight so it seemed wise to come prepared.” He found he could crack the window, leaning out far enough that the breeze blew the smoke away from the room. She leaned on the ledge next to him as she had done so many times in her room on Elm Street, balancing his need for the nicotine against the wrath of Mrs Cooper if he was caught not only in her daughter’s room but polluting her soft furnishings with his noxious habit. He smiled at her, knowing without the need to speak, that she was enjoying the same memory.

An hour later the bedtime sounds of the house had ceased so they crept from their room and stole gingerly down the staircase. The hope was that Nick hadn’t taken his computer to his bedroom. They made their way through the formal reception rooms with which Betty was familiar from her working week and into what Désirée had called the private apartments when she had been heading off to deliver Madame’s trays. Soon they found themselves in a comfortable living room with a large tv and relaxed dark leather couches, in stark contrast to the upright anaemic furniture in the rest of the house. The walls were covered with photographs of Nick with jazz musicians in bars and clubs. “Desperate for validation much?” Jughead remarked snarkily.

To their relief the laptop was there, on a console table. “It’ll have a password,” he whispered hoarsely but she grinned and raised her eyebrow. Of course she had that covered. She entered her best guess and was refused but on the third try she had it and the laptop granted her access with a fanfare which he tried to smother with his hand as she fumbled with the mute button. 

“I watched him,” she explained. “I thought it began with ‘tiger.’ All this,” she gestured at the prints, “tells me it has to be Tiger Rag. I just don’t really know what I’m looking for now.” Jughead jabbed a finger at a file on the desktop marked ‘Security’ and she clicked it open. There was a video file, which she opened and then stepped back aghast as a nauseating recording of Nick’s father’s murder began to play. They stared at each other for a moment in dumb horror before the screen drew them back. Désirée had done exactly as she had said, yelling silently at Xander on the muted screen and being assaulted for her impertinence. The slash of the blade was caught perfectly clearly as was the arc of scarlet that followed it. Xander lost consciousness at once, poleaxed by the loss of blood pressure, but the jet continued to spray wildly as he fell leaving the girl drenched and gaping in terror, staring at the knife in her hand, her mouth open in a scream. The clip was only a few moments long but it clearly showed the actual culprit was not Nick’s sister. The fact that it existed, that Nick had it so readily available and the damning fact that he had not used it to save his sister from incarceration seemed bizarre and incriminating. Betty quickly produced the silver jump drive pendant which she wore for this very purpose and prepared to copy the file. 

“Should I delete it at the same time?” she hissed.

“You’d have to remove it from the hard drive too. Even then he could still recover it. And he’d know we’d been here.” he whispered. She nodded, removed the drive and simply picked up the laptop and put it under her arm. 

“Well if he’d know anyway and we can’t delete it securely we’ll just steal it. And hope he didn’t store his dad’s snuff film in the cloud.”

“And the FBI thought you weren’t a good fit?” he muttered. “I don’t know whether to be reassured or outraged."

They looked around for other clues but they were both so shaken by what they had seen that they were soon back in their room trying to make sense of it. 

“Why is he keeping a video like that anyway? Why hasn’t he used it to free Manon?” she asked. 

“I don’t know. I guess the sister would be an heir if she wasn’t in jail. He gets to take her share for himself.”

She nodded. “Or maybe he’s worried about being in the frame for it himself and wants to be able to prove it wasn’t him.”

“He should be. He set Désirée off on that revenge mission. Did you see her eyes? The girl was dissociating pretty damn hard. I’ve seen it often enough, in Sudan especially, the child soldiers. Shit I think I’ve been there myself a few times. It’s a good legal defence if she has the right counsel. The trauma she’d been through. Anton was her one constant. To lose him was just too much so when StClair grabbed her she lost it. She was a guided missile. And then, even better Manon takes the blame. He probably couldn’t believe his luck.”

She nodded and looked round the room. “Not much more to be done tonight though,” she said and his heart lurched.

He nodded and swept the comforter from the bed along with a throw pillow and placed them on the chair, making clear his intention to nap there. She stepped towards him hesitantly and placed her hand on his arm as she looked up into his eyes. His feelings were becoming unmanageable with her so close. “Juggie, there’s no need to sleep on the chair. The bed’s big enough for us both.”

“I can’t Betty. The chair is fine.”

“Jug, please. I feel weird enough about how I messed up. Let’s be friends, best friends.”

He found he was unable to resist her despite a sense of dread that was washing over him. He knew this wouldn’t end well, there were too many complicated feelings for them to untangle on that bed. “Shit, fine, whatever.” He toed off his shoes and flung himself onto the mattress, lying on top of the blankets and staring at the ceiling, rigid with tension. She stepped into the bathroom and he heard the shower running. He thought about her unzipping the dress. He could have done that for her, could have put his hand on her back, felt her warmth, held her hair in one hand while he leaned to kiss the spot where the fabric met the skin of her shoulder. He’d have teased her by breathing against the back of her neck, she’d shudder at the warmth. When he’d unfastened the dress he could have reached around to touch her breast. He was hard already and she wasn’t even in the fucking room. He’d have to jump out of the window like George Eliot’s reluctant bridegroom, but because he wanted her far too much instead of not enough. He took a deep breath and began to whisper “By the shore of Gitche Gumee, by the shining Big-Sea-Water at the doorway of his wigwam in the pleasant summer morning Hiawatha stood and waited,” until his discomfort had eased a little. He really hated Longfellow. Soon she returned to the room, wrapped in a towel and he was back where he started. He sat up and stared as a drop of water fell from a lock of her hair onto her collarbone. It trickled down, slithering into the gap between her breasts, under the towel, as he watched. He wanted nothing more in the world than to lick it away. If he could have done that he would be able to die a happy man. It wasn’t so much to ask.

“Would you like to have sex with me?” she asked quietly.

He stared at her stupidly, wondering how on earth whatever she had actually said had been so distorted by his brain that it sounded like a proposition. “I’m sorry, I misheard. What?”

“Would you like to have sex? I mean, you have sex with Toni and she’s your friend. I’m your friend so you could have sex with me. Just as friends. For… fun.”

“I … can’t do that Betty. I don’t know what to say.”

“No, fine. I totally understand. I don’t rev your engine. Just a suggestion. Don’t give it another thought.” He thought she would cry. He wanted to cry. He had dreamed of this moment but it was all wrong. She wanted some casual, recreational sex when he wanted to carve her name into his beating heart and give it to her to hold in her hands forever. How could he conceal that he loved her to distraction if she was naked beneath him? He couldn’t, it was a plain fact.

“It’s not that at all,” he said, shaking his head, unable to look away from where the water droplet had disappeared. “I find you very sexy Betts. Anyone would find you sexy. I just don’t think we should confuse things between us.”

She smiled weakly even though her eyes were wet, shrugging as if it were no big deal. “Sorry to have mentioned it. Anyway, bathroom’s free if you need it. I couldn’t borrow your shirt could I? I don’t want to sleep in my dress and my bra’s all wires and scratchy lace.” 

“Certainly. Of course.” He unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it to her but as she reached out to catch it the towel fell and she stood before him in just her panties, clutching his shirt to her chest. He should have turned his back, should have closed his eyes, should have done anything but what he did which was reach out and take her into his arms and kiss her as he had wanted to for so many years, snatching the shirt from her hands and throwing it across the room. 

He’d imagined kissing her. He’d imagined it at twelve years old, pressing his lips against the back of his hand in the treehouse, wondering if he was doing it right because it didn’t seem like it could be fun. He’d imagined it as he jerked off in the shower at thirteen, one forearm braced against the tile so he didn’t slip when his knees shook. He’d imagined it whenever he kissed, or touched, or fucked a girl that wasn’t her, wondering if her lips were softer, her breath sweeter, her touch more thrilling. Now the dream was made real and it was nothing like he had imagined. She was pushing against him so hard, he could hear her breath rasping, she was trembling like a frightened bird. It didn’t feel casual, it felt as serious as a heart attack.

He pulled back a little to look at her and there was something frightening in her eyes, something hungry and frantic. Whatever this was for her it was not casual sex between friends. He didn’t understand what she wanted from him. “Betty, this is all wrong. We should stop. It’s going to break us.” She made a half hearted attempt to pull away but he found he was following her, pulling her to bring her breasts against his chest. It was so fucking hard to hold onto to the why of it. Why did they have to stop? 

That expression was still in her eyes. He couldn’t bear it but he was powerless to stop what they had started unless she pushed him away first so he turned her around and bent her forward. She held the post of the bed like a girl waiting to have her stays laced and he touched her, a little roughly, pushing aside the lace, too crazed to undress her fully. She clearly didn’t mind his impatience, by the way she cried out and gasped “Yes.” He unbuttoned and stepped out of the slacks and grabbed her hips to position her properly. If she just wanted sex, just the sex but not him, then he’d give her that. He could tell by the shortness of her breath and the wetness on his fingers that she was more than ready so he slammed into her and she lurched forward and then pushed back against him, demanding and mewling like an animal. His teeth were against her neck, one hand squeezing her soft, yielding breast, the other clutching at her hip. There would be a bruise he imagined. That was the only thing of his she’d consent to keep, four dark circles left on her skin by his grasping fingers as he tried to hold what he should never have touched. It was all wrong, not a tender consummation but a hurried coupling. Their bodies were united but in every other way they’d never been so at odds. Still he wanted her so desperately, had always wanted her and now the thought came to him that he was inside Betty Cooper, fucking her, and she was calling his name as she quivered to her climax. He suddenly realised that they hadn’t used a condom. He was about to knock up Betty Cooper. The thought should have made him shrivel but instead he thrust harder, his body showing him what he wanted even when his mind rebelled. He didn’t even pull out.

When she turned to him there were tears on her cheeks and he reeled as shame buffeted him. “Shit, Betty. Did I hurt you? I’m so sorry, where does it hurt? Shall I fetch someone?”

“No, you didn’t hurt me at all. I’m okay. Just one of those over emotional girls who cries after sex I guess. Come to bed.”

He pulled on his boxers and clambered into the bed as she grabbed his discarded shirt and ducked back to the bathroom. He didn’t know what he was expected to do when she returned. She’d made it pretty clear that this wasn’t a relationship. She’d wanted some physical connection and he was available. He wanted so much more but he’d taken what was on offer and now he had to find a way to make peace with that. Toni had never stayed afterwards, it was a rule they had. He didn’t sleep over with the guys he played pool with and the same applied to the thing with Toni. Now with Betty it was all different. It seemed weird to have been inside her, to have been closer to her than he had ever been to anyone, given the condom thing, and now to lie next to her like a tin soldier. She climbed into bed and snuggled backwards against him and without a thought in his head he turned onto his side and held her close, breathing into her hair. Now there was peace and security and he realised that the intimacy that he had so longed for from sex he could have just by holding her in his arms like this. He was home.

_________________________________________________________________________

She opened her eyes to the weak winter sun and the grating cawing of crows in the trees around the house. She couldn’t tell if they were angry or mocking. She had no idea how to talk to him about what had happened between them. She had simply lost her mind, driven mad by wanting him, being so near him and the aphrodisiac effects of an unravelling mystery. There was no excuse. She knew he didn’t long for her as she did for him, he’d even had to turn her around to be able to give her what she had demanded from him. She had ruined their friendship again by wanting more than he could give her. She must have woken him because he sprang from the bed and began dressing as if the house were on fire. She wondered whether to reassure him that she wouldn’t ask him again. She understood now that there was nothing so depressing as having sex with a man who didn’t want her. He was clearly intent on getting out of the room with as little chit-chat as possible. There were some hushed ‘Excuse me’s’ and their eyes slid around the room to avoid each other’s gaze but they were soon creeping downstairs, shoes in hand. They needed to get out before StClair missed the laptop. As they descended the staircase they heard him, somewhere in the private apartments calling, “Mother? Mother, where are you?”

As Betty put her hand on the door handle, a hissing whisper reached her. They turned to see Mrs Simone StClair beckoning to them from a side room. Betty had seen pictures of her distributed throughout the house but she was transformed from the assured and sleek matron in those pictures to a fragile, birdlike woman, trembling with anxiety.

“Désirée said you can help me. She says you’re helping my daughter. I need to get out of this house. I have nowhere safe to go. I’m afraid for my life.” Her eyes filled with tears as she spoke, so clearly unaccustomed to throwing herself onto the kindness of strangers, but driven to it now in extremis. Betty looked at the terrified woman in front of her and nodded. 

“Yes, if you come this minute. And you’ll need to agree to answer some questions.”

“Of course. I have everything I need here,” she said, holding up a file of papers. “Everything else can be replaced.” Jug surveyed the room and pulled open the one of the large sash windows. He straddled the sill and then dropped the eighteen inches to the ground, reaching up to help the older woman. She was more capable or more desperate than Betty had given her credit for and she clambered out and dropped into Jughead’s waiting arms. Betty followed her but waved away his assistance, bending her knees to absorb the impact of the slight drop and looking around at once to get her bearings. They hurried towards the car, flinching at the sound of the gravel crunching beneath their feet. Within moments they were on their way, Simone lying flat in the back seat, StClair emerging from the house at the sound of the engine and Betty smiling innocently and waving as Jug peeled away down the drive.

“Where to boss?” he said, “I think your cover might be blown if Nick realises that we have his momma.”

“We’ll go to my place. Left at the end of the drive. We need Mrs StClair to tell us what the hell is going on and then we can get in touch with Leonie.”

Simone sat up and looked at them nervously. “Are you with the police? Désirée wouldn’t tell me much, just that you would help me get out of there.”

“Not the police ma’am. I’m a private detective working for your daughter’s attorney. She needs your help.”

“Manon killed her father. I can’t help her. I don’t understand how both my children can be monsters. What did we do to deserve this?” 

Betty considered giving her a list but decided that it would be counterproductive to alienate her witness. “It isn’t as simple as that ma’am. We’ll work out the story together.” Betty gave Jug directions, watching carefully to see that they weren’t being followed.

They were back at Betty’s apartment in half an hour and Jughead looked about as if he’d never been indoors before, taking in her mismatched furniture and the paintings she’d collected from flea markets and antique fairs. It was distractingly intimate to have him in her home. She shook herself free of the interference that he was causing to her critical faculties and gave her attention to Simone as she explained that Nick had been refusing to let her leave the house for days. He wanted people to believe that her grief had unhinged her and he was making moves to have her committed to an institution, telling anyone who would listen that she was psychotic and delusional, that it was her fault that Manon had gone crazy and murdered her father. “But I’m not crazy. If anyone is it’s him. His papa and I knew he was losing control when he had Désirée’s brother killed.”

Betty felt as she had used to when she was manipulating the rockers on a tricky lock. There was a moment when everything fell into place and even though the lock was not yet open she knew that it would be. The lock had given up its mystery. “Nick killed Anton?”

Simone nodded, tears falling freely now. “Nick is out of control.” She took a piece of paper from the file that she had been clutching. “Xander redrafted his will the week before he died. He didn’t have time to get it drawn up and notarised but he was going to write Nick out. He was reckless and careless, it was a matter of time before he pulled the whole business down on us. Xander knew he had to be stopped. I imagined that he and Manon were in it together but you seem to be saying that isn’t true.”

She seemed too exhausted and terrified to hold back from the truth and they drew the story from her over the next hour. Apparently Nick’s father had allowed him to drag the StClair business empire into trafficking in all of its ugly and desperate forms, undocumented immigrants and refugees enslaved to avoid the attentions of ICE or even extorted for passage to the US and then kept in bonded servitude. “Xander let Nick do as he pleased, profiting from what Nick was doing. We fought about it. Then Anton was missing. I liked him, was worried about him. At first Nick said he’d taken off but I knew he wouldn’t do that and leave his sister worried. I nagged Xander. Just after Christmas he confronted Nick about the boy. He said that Anton had been a risk, was losing his nerve, so he’d dealt with him. We knew what that meant. But then Xander found that he had done it at Carondelet, at our own house. It was so dangerous for us. He had to be stopped so Xander prepared to change his will. And then just a few days later Manon killed him. Nick said that I had to let him handle everything. When I tried to go to Xander’s funeral he locked the doors. The staff were told I was having a breakdown, not to speak to me, to watch me, that I mustn’t leave the house. Désirée was the only one who would help me.”

Betty held back her scorn at the woman’s self pity and reassured her that they’d keep her from her dangerous son. She was clearly falling apart so Betty gave her some pyjamas and rummaged in the medicine cabinet for a pill that she said would help her to sleep, telling her to go and rest in the spare room. When Betty came back Jughead was looking at her with a raised eyebrow. She knew what that meant. “After I left the Bureau I was in a bad place. I needed some help sleeping. It’s been better since I’ve been here. I’m closer to being off them than you are to quitting that.” She gestured at the cigarette that he was spinning around his fingers absentmindedly. “Touché,” he grinned, placing it behind his ear. “Now, do I sense a murder board coming on?” With that she took a large abstract print off the wall of the living room, turning it around to reveal a cork board on the reverse. His grin widened. “Never change Betts,” he said.

“Oh I don’t seem able to get over any of my teenage obsessions,” she replied with a rueful smile, as she picked up a notepad and began to write names on the sheets.

Two hours later they thought they had a part of the story ready to share with Léonie. They’d explain that Nick’s trafficking endeavours had caused Anton to develop a social conscience. Rather than risk him salving that conscience with the NOPD, Nick had offed the kid. They weren’t going to mention Désirée. They weren’t prepared to throw her to the wolves. If she hadn’t obliged they felt sure that Nick would have done the deed himself or had it done. As it was, Désirée had kept her brother’s murderer from having to dirty his hands with patricide. Nick had obviously been surveilling the room so he had footage of what had really gone down but he hadn’t come to his sister’s defence when she unexpectedly took the blame for Désirée’s crime. “Why didn’t he say anything?” Betty mused.

“Because if Manon is convicted of her father’s murder she can’t inherit. It suits him better to have her locked up. They played into his hands better than he could have dreamed. The only threat to him is his mother. He needed to prevent her saying what she knew so he began to set up the story that she had lost her mind. Send her to the booby hatch, his sister to jail and he can have the whole castle. Once Manon’s locked up I don’t like Désirée’s chances.”

“What can we prove?” was Betty’s next question. 

“It’d be helpful to have Anton’s body,” was Jug’s reply, “For Désirée obviously, to give her some closure, but if we can prove that Nick killed Anton that’d go a long way to changing the narrative about who the bad guy really is. 

“A trip to the country to search for a body?” suggested Betty.

“Sounds like a date,” he replied with a grin, before he realised what he had said and his face fell.

She shook her head. It had to be addressed at last. “Hey, don’t worry. I know it wasn’t what you wanted Jug. I wouldn’t ask you to do it again. We’re platonic friends. We’re better that way,” she smiled weakly as he spluttered out some semblance of a denial.

“Jug, really,” she said, her voice soft, “we don’t need talk about it, post mortem it. Let’s just try to forget it happened.” He nodded. Maybe there was such a thing as too much honesty. 

“It’s just… well we weren’t safe. If anything —I mean I’d be there for you,” he stuttered.

“Don’t worry about that. I’ve taken care of it,” she said. He nodded, not looking as relieved as she thought he should.

It was an awkward night. Betty spoke to Léonie and she said she would try to pull some strings to get Simone into the state police’s witness protection scheme, but for the time being she was their responsibility. Jughead prepared a meal for them and Simone wondered why, if he could cook risotto that good, he was providing muscle for a PI. Jug was clearly pleased to be thought of as the muscle of the operation but Betty corrected her, “He’s actually a writer, and a brilliant one at that. He’s helping me out as a favour.”

Simone reinvigorated by food and sleep said “Well I certainly hope he’ll be rewarded well,” with a cheeky smile that made Betty flush and stare at her plate and Jughead have a coughing fit. 

Night fell and Simone went back to bed with another of Betty’s magical pills and Betty and Jughead sat awkwardly in the living room, not knowing how to recover their easy friendship. He complimented her on her home as if he were a passing acquaintance or an airbnB overnighter and she offered him her bed since Simone was snoring in the guest room. He refused, instead accepting blankets to sleep on the couch, clearly grateful that she wasn’t trying to persuade him to share her room. She went to bed and took two of the pills she’d been giving up and knew nothing more until Léonie arrived the next day with three state troopers to take Simone’s deposition and then sweep her off into protective custody.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nick's password is Tiger Rag. It's said to be the most commonly recorded jazz compositions. He's basic like that. You probably know it. It's [here](https://youtu.be/sUijZC3h5EY) if you're interested.


	7. We are Gonna Stay Married

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Corpses, conspiracies and confessions

He’d dreamed he was Burt from Children of the Corn, trapped in the cornfield, the rows higher than his head and the dread of the monster closing his throat. He couldn’t see which way to run. An allegory he supposed, a New World twist on Dante’s dark wood where the straight way was lost. He woke from the dream with a gasp and reached for her before he remembered that they weren’t together. He thought he had a pretty vibrant and original imagination but, try as he might, he couldn’t conceive of any way in which they would be together again. Eventually she came into the living room, already dressed and business-like to tell him that Simone had been taken into the protection of the state but that before she went she had given her written permission for them to carry out a search at Carondelet. That provided a path through the corn rows, an investigation, clues to follow. “Okay,” he nodded, rubbing his eyes and rolling out the crick in his neck, “Let’s go digging for skeletons. Hey you don’t have a shirt I could borrow do you? All my clothes are back at the other place.”

Sheepishly, she produced an old, oft worn S t-shirt from her room. “I must have forgotten to give this back some time when you’d stayed over. Sorry.”

He was simultaneously alarmed and aroused by the information that Betty knew a guy called Dennis who would meet them by the bayou with cadaver dogs on a Sunday. They drove out with the radio playing Cajun accordion tunes to disguise the silence that hung heavy and oppressive between them. He couldn’t help comparing this journey with the one he had made a few days earlier, before he had taken advantage of her and probably lost his chance to even be her friend. He thought about Anton travelling this road, either in terror or ignorance of what was about to befall him. It just went to show that no-one ever knew what was coming around the corner. He thought about what he would want to do if his own death was imminent. There was just one item on the bucket list. He would want to tell Betty Cooper that he had always loved her. He decided that he would do just that before he boarded his plane home, not because he thought there was any hope but just because it was the truest thing in his life and he wanted to speak it just once.

The dog guy was already there when they arrived at the StClair place. She greeted him with a smile and a “Hey there Dennis, thanks for helping us out on a Sunday.”

He grinned. “They don’t know it’s Sunday Ms Cooper. Corpses are playtime for them anyhow. You ready?” She nodded and he opened the back of his truck to release two German Shepherd dogs. They stood alert, watching their master until he dispatched them with a gesture. They loped rapidly towards the house, noses to the ground, tails thrashing from side to side until they reached the hotbox. There they sat, side by side, giving a single sharp bark each. Jug and Betty followed Dennis over as he explained that the dogs were signalling that there had been something there in the past. “It’s a hotbox on a plantation. This ground is soaked with blood.” Jughead reached down and pointed out the stain he had seen on his previous visit and Dennis nodded soberly. “Old blood and new.” He gave both dogs a reward and then set them off again with a cry of “Go on boys. What else?” The dogs flew off towards the water and Dennis shrugged. “Too lazy to dig a grave I guess. Not that anything stays buried round here anyhow. In Louisiana we have to build stone tombs if we don’t want the past rising up at us when we least expect it.”

The bayou at Carondelet was exactly what he’d had in mind when he had thought about Louisiana. The Spanish moss hung from cypress branches almost to the surface of the glassy water. There were two worlds, the one above the surface and then its perfect mirror in the creek. Above on one side, the clear skies, below on the other, the corpses. Everything was still except for the occasional plopping sound of a sleepy turtle slipping into the water. Before he’d come to Louisiana he’d imagined that the swamps reeked but the air was soft and the smell was rich and somehow wholesome like fresh compost and yeasty bread and a warm body next to you when you awoke from sleep. It was a good place, fertile and rich. All the evil here had been imported. 

Soon Dennis was yelling over to them. The two dogs were both lying down now, watching their handler, alert and watchful. “We’ve got two sites. A kill site at the box and a disposal site here where the vic entered the water. You want to take a look? I’ve got camera gear in the truck.”

“Thanks Dennis. Let’s find out what’s down there,” said Betty, just as he’d hoped she wouldn’t.

It took just over an hour with the camera and powerful lights. Jug was only grateful that the gators were hibernating. The turtles may have been sleepy but they’d done enough damage to Anton when the camera revealed what was left of him. By the time the NOPD and the medical examiner had arrived to secure their discovery, darkness had fallen and the flashing blue lights reflected eerily off the heavy mist. The remains were recovered and scooped into a body bag in a process from which even Jughead, with his cast iron constitution, had to turn away.

The NOPD took over their investigation, taking statements and making arrests before the night was out. Jughead and Betty headed back to her place to sit up most of the night drinking wine trying to purge their memories of what had become of Anton. “This was the whole problem with the FBI,” she exclaimed at last, her frustration erupting.

“What was?” 

“We solved it. We know who did what and why. We found the solution but my client’s still in jail for something she didn’t do and the only way I can get her out is to put away another girl who didn’t deserve any of what happened to her. Xander’s dead but so is Anton, Nick’s in jail but so is Manon. It’s just arbitrary. It makes me mad that knowing what happened doesn’t make anything better.”

“Sounds like you’re banging your head against the difference between justice and law there Betts,” he said, rubbing his hand over her back in at an attempt to comfort her.

“Yeah, I’ve always had a problem with that,” she smiled sadly. “I just want life to be fair, for people who do their best to be rewarded, for bad folks to get what’s coming to them. And it never works out like that. Nick StClair wins with every roll of the dice. He's born into a rich white family, he's a straight man, he murders a kid and all anyone cares about is whether he made a mess, he takes advantage of a traumatised girl to kill for him and not only does he get away with it, his sister takes the blame so he inherits everything. He just cannot lose. Désirée and Anton had no chance, not ever. And she's going to end up in jail and he was in the creek.”

“Well we’ve got the characters and the plot points. We just have to see what we can do to make the narrative work out to a more satisfying conclusion. We have a Big Bad, let's make him pay. And Désirée has a superpower too." Betty looked confused, "People always underestimate and disregard girls like her. Let’s make that work for her for once.”

The author and the detective worked together over the next few days to craft a version of the events of January 14th that would give the people what they wanted, a story where villains suffered the consequences of their actions, a story without confusing grey areas of moral ambiguity. The fact that almost none of it was true didn’t bother them at all. Stories, as Jughead said, were often truer than the truth.

The story that they gave to Leonie made her raise a finely shaped eyebrow at a couple of points but she allowed them to continue even as she made it clear that she had her doubts. Nick had killed Anton. Simone would testify to it and the body had been found on his property. Xander had been mad enough about it to redraft his will. They had documentary evidence of that. Betty and Jughead had seen Manon in jail and had informed her that her brother had been arrested and that her mother was safe. To their surprise, they said, she had broken down in tears of relief and gratitude and had radically changed her narrative about the events of the 14th. Leonie narrowed her eyes and Betty thought they might have over egged that detail. It would perhaps only play to someone who hadn’t met Manon StClair. They ploughed on. She had finally told them the truth. Her brother had come to her, telling her she was wanted in the drawing room. He said Xander had a birthday gift for her. When she stepped towards Xander to embrace him Nick had appeared behind him and slashed him with a knife. They omitted to mention that they had made her demonstrate how he had held the knife, over and over again until they thought the angles would convince a jury. It was lucky Nick was left handed or they’d have to contend that he’d made the cut while his back was turned to his father which would be pretty hard to believe. As the court would expect, the innocent young girl had been frozen in horror as her papa’s life blood had splattered against her. Then her wicked brother had forced her to confess to the murder in his stead, threatening that otherwise he would kill their mother. Simone would testify that she had indeed been imprisoned by him, prevented from attending her husband’s funeral and kept in fear of her life. 

Betty speculated to Léonie that, when faced with the true depravity of his crimes, Nick would make wild allegations, perhaps trying to implicate innocent members of the domestic staff, a maid perhaps. He might claim that there was prima facie evidence to support these claims but none would, Leonie could rest assured, be found. Jug grinned at that. Désirée had quietly replaced Nick’s computer in its position only the day before, the hard drive expunged of anything damaging to her and Nick’s most depraved pornography and incriminating documents placed in prominent positions on the desktop as if his character needed to be further sullied.

“Why do you think he’ll try to implicate this young girl?” Leonie asked.

“She’s Anton’s sister,” Betty explained patiently. “She asked me to try to find out what had happened to him. It unlocked the whole case. Without her we’d never have caught him. It’s revenge.”

“And you wanted me to take her on as a client because…”

“We may have had to ask her to look through Nick’s desk for evidence about the will. She was frightened to be arrested for some petty crime. Nothing serious,” Jug said, his face a picture of integrity.

“Okay, I’ll buy it. I’ll talk to the judge,” Leonie said with an almost imperceptible shake of her head.

Manon was released two days later into the care of her mother who was only too willing to believe the version of events that she had heard in court since it meant that only one of her children was a monster, unfortunate rather than careless parenting. 

After Manon’s release she wasted no time inviting her saviours to celebrate the win at the StClair house. She met them at the door herself and showed them into the private apartments where Jug noticed the walls were bare, darker areas of the paper indicating where Nick’s trophies had been removed. Désirée was reclining at leisure on one of the leather couches and Manon went and wrapped herself around her and they gazed at each other as if they couldn’t believe the world held such wonders. He smiled at Betty’s surprised expression and whispered in her ear, “Bless your innocent heart.”

“You knew?” she whispered. 

“She quoted Sappho to you. ‘I pray one word. I want,’ is Sappho,” he smiled.

Manon tore herself away from her girlfriend to grin at them as she urged them to sit. The expression transformed her, she looked so much younger than when Betty had met her. “Thanks so much Ms Cooper. Mr Jones. I’m sorry I was such a bitch about everything. I just couldn’t imagine that there could be a way through it all. You were right though. I just cried as soon as they brought me into the courtroom and I barely had to say anything. It was like a magic trick.”

Betty nodded. “Well just occasionally I think it’s okay to use their prejudices against them. Just don’t make a habit of it. And I think we’re past the formalities, Betty and Jughead please. What’s next for you two?”

“Well I seem to have inherited a crime family so I guess I’ll be a mob boss,” Manon said matter of factly. 

Jughead looked down to hide his smile but Betty looked stricken for a moment until Désirée began to giggle. “She’s kidding. Seriously though we have things to work through, Anton’s funeral to arrange, I’m going to be seeing a therapist. Manon’s mom has agreed to let me live here and maybe go to school. I want to make him proud.”

“We’re going to be closing down businesses that do no-one any good, finding someone to run the ones that are worth something. I’m going to turn around what my family means in this city, make amends. My father was a terrible human being and it’d take more money than he left to put everything right but we can make a start. Then, we thought maybe college. If we can go together. We’re not going to be split up again.”

Betty smiled a little sadly. “Well I wish you good luck. You already know how tough the world can be but if there’s someone on your side it’ll make it easier.”

“Hey, we cooked. Well Dezi did anyway. I just got in the way and chose the playlist. Shall we eat in the kitchen? Momma’s lying down. Today has been a whole lot for her,” Manon smiled, leaning over to kiss Désirée’s cheek.

Désirée had made stuffed mirliton that had Jughead making notes on his phone even as he asked for a third helping and soon he was debating with the chef about whether the dish would be improved with andouille sausage or not. Betty and Manon cleared plates with indulgent smiles and chatted as the coffee pot dripped. “You’re a good couple,” she told her young friend.

“Thanks Betty. My mother says we’re silly little girls and we don’t know our own minds but I love her so much and we’re best friends too. That has to count for something doesn’t it?”

“Yes, so much.” She glanced back toward the table where Jughead and Désirée seemed to be arguing about shrimp now. "I’ll tell you a secret. When I was your age I was in love with my best friend too. It wasn’t quite the same because he wasn’t interested in me like that, but those friendships are so important.”

Manon regarded her seriously. “Was it him? Was it Jughead that you were in love with?”

Betty chuckled, “You were right about me the first time we met. Harsh but true. It’s always been Jughead, then and now. Unrequited and tragic.” She looked up and saw Manon looking over her shoulder, her face frozen, and she knew with certainty that she had done it again. She had made yet another unwelcome declaration. She spun round to find him standing behind her, frozen and pale. 

He seemed unable to form words. “What? What the hell…?”

She looked down, embarrassed. “I’m sorry Jug. I keep messing up. Manon, Désirée, thanks so much for dinner, we’ll get out of your way.” As she spoke her throat was tight with panic, she knew that there was nothing to keep him in Louisiana any longer, knew that he would grab his bag and call a cab as soon as they got back to her place, she already missed him. He nodded mutely and waved over to Désirée and began to stride out of the house ahead of her. She scuttled behind him trying to apologise. “Jug, wait, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. Just, you know, young love. I was feeling sentimental. Please talk to me.”

He spun around as they got outside onto the drive. “I don’t…what did you say? I think I misheard. What?”

Now she began to feel mad. He had to stop pretending to be surprised that she loved him. He always seemed to forget that she had declared herself, over and over. “Oh for God’s sake Jug, let’s just be honest about all this once and for all, shall we? We need to discuss it and get past it. That way maybe I can stop pining and hoping and longing for you and you can just be clear about why you never wanted me.”

‘What the actual fuck Betty? What are you talking about? I always wanted you and you always wanted someone else and I’ve had to learn to live with that. Don’t try to pretend that it was ever about what I wanted.”

She took a deep breath. “Okay. You’ve gone crazy. We are not going to do this standing outside this house of horrors. We’ll go home and sit down calmly and discuss this like two people who’ve been friends forever. Right?”

“Fine,” he spat out as he snatched the car keys from her and flung open the door. She let him drive since her eyes were swimming with tears that she couldn’t allow to fall.

Back at her place he closed the door behind him and leaned against it. “We’re going to do this, are we? Say what we feel and to hell with the consequences? Blow the whole thing up. Is that the plan?”

“Yes. We can’t go back and we clearly can’t save our friendship if we don’t work through it. So talk.”

He stared into her eyes, took a deep breath and launched himself into it. “I love you. I’ve loved you for years. I’ve wanted you every single day of my life since I knew what it was to want someone. So, that’s me,” he said, his chin tilted belligerently as if he expected her to attack him. It was an unorthodox but entirely characteristic way to say it. It was also inconceivable. Her jaw dropped open and she was unable to form a thought for a few moments. Finally, seeing his face so pale and scared, she grasped a coherent idea. “I don’t understand. When I told you that I had feelings for you…”

“Wait, when you what?”

"At Archie and V’s engagement. When I asked you if you could like me, you said that we shouldn’t ruin our friendship. What? Why are you looking like that?”

“At Archie and Veronica’s engagement party you said that you were in love with Archie and should you tell him. I couldn’t believe that you would even think of it. And then you ran off. And I didn’t see you for almost five years. When you blew off their wedding I knew you weren’t getting over it anytime soon. But I was in love you for every day of it, just like I’d been in love with you for the ten years before that.”

“You thought I was in love with Archie? With Archie? How could you have thought that?” For someone who had graduated from an Ivy League she began to think he might be the dumbest person she’d ever met.

“Didn’t you say that? I don’t really remember what you said. That you were in love with your friend…oh shit!” Now his eyes were wide and startled. “Was it me? I was the friend?”

“Of course you were.” She couldn’t believe he could have been so oblivious. “I was in love with you since junior year, before really. As soon as I started to think about boys it was always you.”

“But, Trev?”

“Always you, you dummy. Only you. I went out with Trev because you brushed me off. I was trying to make you jealous but it didn’t work. It barely even registered with you and then I felt guilty about using him so I kept on seeing him. We were pals really. We never…you know.”

“How can you say I brushed you off? I was so jealous that some days I didn’t even come to class, couldn’t bear to see you with him. When you started to bring him a sandwich at lunch I thought I might die of misery. It was worse because he’s a good guy and I was the asshole that jerked off thinking about his girlfriend. Shit, sorry. That’s gross.”

“Not gross. So much not gross.”

“I’d never have brushed you off. If you’d ever given me the tiniest hint…”

“Like when I stared right at you and flat out told everyone that I was in love with someone and I didn’t want to date anyone who wasn’t him. Like that kind of tiny hint? And then you grabbed my hand and dragged me off to the Blue and Gold and I was so excited because you’d finally got the message and you were going to say you felt the same and kiss me and you’d be my first and I wouldn’t have to pretend it was you touching me at night anymore. And you actually said that you didn’t feel that way and hoped I’d move on as soon as I could. Like then, you mean?”

“But that wasn’t how it happened. They were teasing you so I got you out of there and I just said that the guy was a douche if he didn’t like you back. And then you were with Trev so I assumed that it had been him that you liked until I realised it was Archie. If I’d thought for a minute…”

“Why did you assume it couldn’t be you Jug? Why wasn’t it obvious? When I spun that goddamn bottle so deliberately so that it’d point at you and then you just stomped off and wouldn’t touch me. I thought you were being a dick until V explained that you were either gay or asexual. And then I find out that you’ve been schtupping Cheryl’s girlfriend.”

“Hey, never when she was Cheryl’s girlfriend. And you said you wanted that arrangement the other day so your moral outrage is pretty rich.”

“I said I wanted that because I’ve wanted you so desperately for so long that I thought I should take whatever I could get from you. But you weren’t into it and that hurt even more.” Now she was crying and her tears summoned his own. By the time he took her in his arms they were both sobbing.

“I was into it Betts, but more than that, it was holding you that night, having you safe in my arms. I’ve never been so happy.”

“Well you’re an idiot. I don’t understand why you didn’t realise that I wanted to be with you. It was so obvious. And I guess I must be an idiot too.”

“Yeah. More you. It’s easy to see why I’d want you, no-one would imagine you’d want me. I’m just some South Side weirdo with a crush. It never occurred to me that you could… Is it too late? Can we save this… us?”

“If you could even imagine how dear to me you are.” She reached out her hand to stroke over his cheek as softly as a breath.

He gave a surprised, delighted laugh and picked her up bridal style and carried her into her bedroom. “I wanted to do this that first day,” he whispered as he set her on her bed. 

“I wanted it too but we hadn’t quite exhausted all the ways in which we could not be in love. I think we’re through all of them now and we just have to get to it.”

The kiss was completely different from the hungry, needy desperation of last time. She had imagined that he was being generous to her then and so she had been intent on making the most of his indulgence. Now she knew that he loved her and she wanted only to give herself to him. This was a kiss that shared, that ebbed and flowed, that learned and grew. He held her so gently, as if she were something precious and she found herself soft and yielding in his arms. She had found the place where she need not stand ready to defend, where she was entirely safe, where everything was permitted and nothing judged.

As they pulled apart she looked up into his eyes, more familiar to her than her own and saw herself reflected there. She was seen and loved and nothing could change that, nothing ever had. “I want you,” she whispered.

“You have me,” he replied. 

She grinned and grabbed the hem of his t-shirt. “Prove it,” she said as she tugged it up over his raised arms and he shook out his hair as his head was freed from the neckline. 

There was joy this time. She threw off her shirt laughing and stepped out of her jeans as he was unlacing his boots, looking up at her every few seconds as if to check she wouldn’t change her mind or simply dissolve into thin air. She was surprised to find that she didn’t feel self conscious. At the pool or in her rare sexual encounters in the past she tried to hold herself so as to conceal the parts of her body she disliked. Now she knew that he wouldn’t see her imperfections as anything to be ashamed of. She knew that because she wanted, more than anything, to kiss the scar on his bicep where a tattoo had once been carved off him. So she did and he watched her, gradually understanding what the gesture meant. He reached behind her to lay her gently back onto the bed, poised above her, his weight on one elbow. He began to kiss her neck softly, his breath caressing her skin as he moved down to her breast. She stroked his hair as he kissed her there. “Who cuts it now?” she murmured, threading her fingers through the strands.

“JB usually. If I have to have a photo taken for something I’ll get a pro but no-one cuts it like you. I used to love that, just to be close, to have you touch me. Most sensuous twenty minutes ever. Felt like a creep though.”

“Why do you imagine I offered? We’re both creeps. We’d better stick together,” she laughed and then gasped as he kissed her nipple and her eyes seemed to roll back in her head at the spike of pleasure and fulfilment. 

Later when he touched her, so skilfully, so differently from the fevered movement of a few days before she thought she might never be able to form a thought again. Then there was the need that grew inside her. She had to touch him, had to bring him the same ecstasy that he was giving to her. She reached down and he moaned a long, deep sound that made her look at him in alarm. “Oh God, don’t stop. Just don’t ever stop. Oh Christ, you’d better stop. I don’t want to let you down.”

“Hey,” she said and his blue eyes opened and he smiled at her serious expression. “Whatever happens this is wonderful. You’re a young girl’s dream. I love you and I love your body and I want to make love to you forever.”

“If you keep doing that you’re going to be making love to me for about ten more seconds. Lie back.”

She did as she was told and he kissed her hip bones and then her thighs and she moaned and squirmed a little, eager but not wanting to demand. Soon he was where she wanted him and her whole body began to tremble as he kissed and licked. Her eyes were squeezed shut as he guided her towards a shuddering, quivering climax and when she opened them it was to see him as pleased as he had ever been, looking up at her with a Cheshire Cat grin that should not have been sexy but really, really was. When she straddled him and he gasped and squeezed at her breast the slight pain was almost enough to send her spiralling again but she held her concentration as she moved above him until he grabbed her hips and moved her as he needed, his lips moving silently as she came again and he followed her into the silent place where she had fallen. Later she raised herself on one elbow to look at him questioningly, “Were you reciting Hiawatha just then? I could have sworn you said “With the rushing of great rivers With their frequent repetitions.” That’s Hiawatha isn’t it?”

He looked sheepishly at her. “It’s what I do to hold off. I recite Longfellow. I really fucking hate Longfellow.”

“I like it. I think it’s sexy. Say some more, it turns me on,” she giggled.

“Well you’ve completely ruined that trick. I’ll have to find another poem now.” They lay in bed for a long time swapping the least erotic poems they knew but not one of them could dampen their ardour in the slightest

## Epilogue

The band was playing “Jole Blon” as Jughead twirled her on the balcony until she could no longer tell if it was the dancing, the champagne or the sheer joy that was making her giddy. As the tune ended she threw her bouquet out into the crowd of friends and family below and laughed as it was snatched from the air by Cheryl who presented it to Toni with an uncharacteristically shy smile. “You’re up next Toni,” called Jug with a grin. 

She glanced down at her wedding ring, glad to have it back where it belonged. She had slipped it off and passed it to Archie just before the ceremony so that Jughead could put it back on her finger after they had said their vows. Until those few minutes she had never been without it since the first evening that Jug had spent with her in the Big Easy and it was her plan never to remove it again. 

Everyone, even Alice, said that it had been a beautiful ceremony. They made their vows in the magnolia scented garden of the StClair house. Her bridesmaid, Manon, had said it was only by populating the house with good memories that the sad things that had happened there could be forgotten. Manon had paired her gauzy bridesmaid’s dress with heavy black boots and once JB had seen that, she’d immediately kicked off her wedding shoes and followed suit. Cheryl had already scuppered the colour scheme when she had her bridesmaid dress remade in scarlet, clashing with the flowers and Toni’s lilac hair but it had mattered far more to the happy couple that everyone felt comfortable than that some aesthetic was enforced, whatever the mother of the bride said. Betty had asked Désirée to be in the bridal party too but she had begged to be excused bridesmaid’s duties, preferring to help Jug with the catering arrangements. She was feeling less anxious these days but crowds and noise could still raise her heart rate and make her panic. Betty was also short of a maid of honour but when Veronica had arrived for the rehearsal dinner she understood her refusal, she would’ve struggled to make it down the aisle. Eight months pregnant with twins, she had to lean on Archie’s arm in order to move at all. She had still taken charge of Betty’s hair and make-up and cried gallons of hormonal tears throughout the day, even forgiving Betty at long last for missing her wedding.

After her mother had walked her down the aisle there was a delicious meal, planned and largely prepared by the groom, as a consequence of which Alice had warned Betty that if her new husband was such a good chef she would have to be careful that she didn’t ruin the marriage by gaining too much weight. Then a local band played Cajun tunes that had everyone dancing, Archie gave a rather off colour best man’s speech and her mother drank a whole lot of good champagne. 

If anyone noticed that it took the bride and groom an indecently long time to change out of their wedding clothes and into the jeans and leather jackets they were wearing to set off on their honeymoon no-one said anything, preferring to cheer and whoop with delight as the motorcycle pulled away down the driveway and headed out to the bayou to begin to reclaim another old house from the horrors of the past with love and joy and hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title and the chapter headings in this story are all from the Mountain Goats song Southwood Plantation Road. Listen to it [here](https://youtu.be/T_Wdx7SYGLw), it’s great!
> 
> Manon is named for Manon Lescaut. Pucchini's opera ends after Manon has been transported from France to New Orleans.
> 
> Désirée is named for the character in Kate Chopin's story Désirée's Baby set in Louisiana. I adore Kate Chopin...and oh my God can she nail an ending! You can read the story [here](https://www.katechopin.org/desirees-baby-text/)
> 
> Jug and Betty's wedding dance is to Jole Blon, or Pretty Blonde. You can listen to it [here](https://youtu.be/rAbooBGFtWU)
> 
> The story was inspired by The Big Easy which is a really good thriller and has romance and noir elements so it's right in my wheelhouse. Check it out if you don't already know it.


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